Feel The Sun Through Darkest Sky
by monroeslittle
Summary: It's not his fault he falls for her before he knows who her father is. AU.
1. Chapter 1

a/n: okay, here's yet another AU for you. the current plan is seven chapters, but that might change. this is based on a prompt from Kelsey and Ally - thank you both so much! And thanks also to my two editors, Dhi and Quinn! title and lyrics come from "Bleed" by American Pearl.

* * *

><p><em>I believe the sun will rise one day,<br>And we'll come alive and reach for something real.  
>I can feel the sun through darkest sky,<br>But all the faith inside won't take away this fear.  
>But I'll be stronger than before,<br>And they can't bleed me anymore._

* * *

><p>Nobody at the police station even blinks when Finn walks in.<p>

They all know him, and they always have.

He's even slept here at night, when he was little and his mom had an event and couldn't find a sitter. Captain Defibaugh nods at Finn. "Looking for your old man, Huddy? He's back in his office." Finn thanks him with a tight smile and weaves his way through the station.

His father started as a police officer here straight after he graduated the police academy, "a rookie fresh from the cradle," his dad likes to say, and now, twenty six years later, he's a Bureau Chief, in charge of the Patrol Boroughs, and he has dozens of underlings, all of whom still treat Finn like an awkward, lanky twelve-year-old.

He knocks on the door frame of the office, and his dad and Major McCraty both glance over.

"Mom said you wanted me to stop by after school?" he says hesitantly, nodding at McCraty when the older man smiles at him. McCraty is pretty cool, all things considered.

"Oh, yes! Right on time! Right on time!" his dad exclaims, grinning. "You've got this, eh, Collin? You've got this." He claps McCraty on the back. "We'll talk more later. Come on in, son. Come on in. I've got news for you!"

His dad is a huge man, tall and beefy, the lines on his face hard, but on closer inspection he isn't too terrifying: his dark hair always sticks up in the back, and his clothing always looks a little rumpled. Maybe it's from one night too many at the pub down the street, but his dad seems to have this permanent kind of rosy red tint to his cheeks that only grows brighter when he laughs.

Plus, Finn is, like, two inches taller than his dad now, which kind of rocks.

(Still, when Christopher Hudson wants his way, when he yells, spit flying, when he stares Finn down, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed, his face even redder with fury, Finn always feels a solid two feet _shorter_.)

His dad circles around his desk to close the door after McCraty passes Finn out of the office, and then he turns back to Finn. "Tell me," he says. "Do you know a Matthew Rutherford?"

Finn frowns. "Um, Matthew Rutherford?" he repeats. "Actually, ah, there's a Matt Rutherford in my English class, I think. Why?"

"Ha ha!" his dad shouts, clapping Finn on the back and then leaning back against his desk. "Deputy Grant brought him into the station last night — caught him dealing."

"Oh," Finn says, because he doesn't really know what else to say. He is kind of shocked. Matt doesn't really seem like the kind, but, then again, Finn doesn't really know anything about him.

"It's not his fault, though, a'course not, a'course not!" his dad says, waving his hand. "He's a kid, hey? And he told us, he came right out and told us, like a damn fine kid, exactly how it all went down. Peer pressured, he was! Like something out of those damn after school specials."

Finn just nods, waiting for his father to tell him the point of all this.

"And you know who he said leaned on him? You know who? Noah Puckerman. _Noah Puckerman_!" his dad roars, his face growing red with excitement. "Can you imagine!" He chuckles, apparently thrilled.

"Yeah, that's, um — who's that, again?"

"Puckerman, kid! Motherfucking Puckerman! He's the son of Sam Puckerman, who's the brother-in-law of Hiram Berry. _Hiram Berry_! We've got him, kid! _We've got him_!" His dad laughs, and Finn nods and manages to chuckle a little.

He should have known this would be about Hiram Berry.

"And good ol' Rutherford promised to talk. To tell us everything. And then we'll have the nephew, and that'll lead us straight to the big bad wolf! Because Rutherford, he promised he had something good. That he had _seen_ things! Can you believe it! Seen things! We've never had a witness who could lead us straight up the ladder, never! But, oh, Rutherford — good ol' Rutherford!" His dad can't seem to stop grinning.

"That's awesome, Dad," Finn says.

"You're damn right it is, kid! And you'll come in Thursday, then, to help."

"What? Why do I — why do you need me?" Finn asks. "I don't —"

"Of course we need you!" his dad shouts happily, clapping Finn on the shoulder. "You go to his school. If he tries to back out, if his feet go cold — you'll be there to give us the insider advantage. You keep an eye on him tomorrow at school, see if he likes a girl, huh? See who his friends are. And then if he tries to balk, tries to hold his tongue on Thursday — you'll tell us what we need to make him talk! It'll be perfect!

"We'll say seven, then, Thursday night, huh?"

"No," Finn protests, because he doesn't want any part of this — he _never_ wants any part of this. But his dad stares at him, blinking in confusion, and Finn splutters up an excuse. "The dance," he says. "McKinley has a dance on Thursday. It was Friday, but they moved it, because Headmaster Figgins said —"

"Oh, of course, of course!" his dad says, and he smiles. "You've got to show your girl a good time, don't you? Of course. It's Quinn, isn't it?"

"Actually, we, um, broke up," Finn admits quietly. He kind of thought his dad already knew, but that doesn't really matter. He knows now.

His dad frowns. "Oh, oh. I'm sorry, son. But, hey — you must have another girl, then, to take the dance? Sweep her off her feet, huh?" He grins at Finn, and Finn manages a weak smile and a nod. He'll leave the lie at that. "Excellent, excellent. We'll do Friday, then! I'll have Rutherford told to come by on Friday. You'll have your dance on Thursday, and then come by the station on Friday, and we'll talk to Matt, then. Perfect. Perfect."

Finn swallows back more protests.

He may never want any part of this, but he always ends up in the middle anyway.

"And, you know, son, you help out with this — it'll go a long way." He lowers his voice and leans closer to Finn, as if to share a secret with him. "Years from now, after I've been Police Commissioner and I'm retired, the man who follows me — he may well know you, and he may well remember that Finn Hudson, even back as a kid, helped bring down Hiram _fucking_ Berry. How's that sound, huh?"

He pulls back and then stands. "You better be on your way home. You tell your mom I'll be home late, okay? Okay." He smiles as Finn nods, and he opens the office door for Finn. "This is it, kid," his tells him. "This is our yellow brick road, straight to that bastard Berry. You know what I always say. There are three great evils in this world, right? —"

"Dirty, damned Defence Attorneys," Finn says.

"That's damn right, and those rich, rotten Republicans, and what?"

"And those Berry bastards," Finn answers.

"Atta boy, son. And those Berry bastards are about to see their end, huh?"

He claps Finn on the back yet again, and then Finn starts back through the station, and more people holler out hello to him, and they call him Huddy and joke about when he plans to come on in here in a uniform of his own. He smiles and nods and acts like he _wants_ to wear a uniform of his own, and then he finally escapes out onto the street.

But he doesn't head home. It's not as if his mom needs the message — his dad is _always _home late; family dinner, when his mom isn't passed out, is usually around ten at night.

The security guard at Sam's house recognizes his car and buzzes Finn past the gates, and the guy must call up to Sam, because Mike shouts for Finn to move his ass on upstairs the moment the maid lets Finn in. He takes the stairs two at a time and catches the X-Box controller that Sam tosses at him when he walks into the bedroom suite that Sam calls his own.

(His mom is this big time judge, and she makes a crazy amount of money, but pretty much everybody at McKinley has a parent that makes a crazy amount of money — it's _McKinley, _the school for kids of the rich and famous in NYC. Finn has only met Mrs. Evans once or twice, but he and Sam have been friends forever.)

"What's up, dude?" Sam asks.

"What did your dad want?" Mike says, and he offers Finn a beer from the mini fridge.

"We have to go to the dance on Thursday," he says.

"The dance?" Sam repeats, and he actually pauses Halo. "Like, at McKinley?"

"Yeah," Finn says, popping open the beer can.

"I thought we were gonna skip it and go to the Planet of the Apes at the two dollar theatre," Mike says. "Wait, did you and Quinn —?" He pauses, and he and Sam glance at each other and then back at Finn, and he shakes his head. He does _not_ want to talk about Quinn.

"No, it's my dad," Finn says. "He wants me to help out with a case, and I tried to get out of it. It didn't work, and now I've gotta go to the dance."

Mike shrugs. "It might not be totally lame."

"I think we can make an appearance," Sam says. He turns back to the X-Box.

"Whatever," Finn says, and he downs the rest of his beer and flops back on the bed. The dance _will_ be totally lame, 'cause it's a freakin' _high school dance_, and, worse still, he'll be there without a date. Mike and Sam won't have dates either, and they obviously don't have a problem with that, but Finn still feels like a loser.

Quinn would probably call him one.

But he doesn't give a fuck what she would say. (Or, at least, he doesn't _want_ to give a fuck.)

"Dude," Mike says, "don't."

Finn glances over at him. "What?"

"Think about her," he says knowingly.

"She's totally not worth it," Sam agrees, and he manages to shove some Doritos in his mouth without taking his eyes off the television screen. "I never liked her —" He frowns and starts to pound on his controller, muttering fuck repeatedly under his breath.

"I can't help it," Finn says. "I mean, it's not like I miss her that much, or whatever, 'cause we didn't even hang out all that much, but she, I mean, it just makes me feel —" He stops, 'cause he's a guy, and he isn't gonna talk about his dumbass _feelings_.

"We'll find you another girl, man," Mike offers.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, his mouth full, "one who lets you touch her boobs."

Finn throws a pillow at him and then sits up and leans over to grab another beer from the fridge. Quinn can go fuck herself. He has other shit to worry about, anyway. Like, apparently he has to help interrogate some kid from school. And will Matt really have enough dirt on Puckerman and the Berrys to bring them down?

His entire life, his dad has wanted to see Hiram Berry fry.

Hiram Berry, the untouchable criminal. Hiram Berry, with hundreds of murders to his name. Hiram Berry, the biggest Polish mob boss in New York City. Hiram Berry, the devil incarnate according to Christopher Hudson.

Finn has heard stories about Hiram Berry his entire life.

And now, apparently, his dad needs his help to see Hiram Berry burn.

* * *

><p>He avoids Quinn at school the next day, like always.<p>

She's actually better about that this week than she has been since the break-up — she doesn't ambush him in the halls anymore. He does try to learn something about Matt, but it's hard. He doesn't really talk to anybody that Finn knows, and Finn actually has to look up some kids in the yearbook to find out who the boys that Matt does hang out with are. And he doesn't have a girlfriend, as far as Finn can tell. Whatever.

It's not like Finn will be that helpful on Friday anyway.

He chills with Mike and Sam that afternoon, and they go out to find costumes, 'cause apparently nobody told him before, but this dance is the _Halloween_ Formal.

Finn goes as John Connor, Sam as Bruce Springsteen, and Mike as a vampire — and, yeah, Sam and Finn rib him for that for _hours_ after they buy stuff at Goodwill and the Dollar Store for their costumes. Finn knows it's all about Tina for Mike, though, 'cause he's totally had wood for the other Asian since this past summer.

The dance is up on a large stretch of flat roof on the giant mansion that serves for a private school, and Finn shows up a little past ten, 'cause it would be super lame to show up on time at eight, and they don't need any help in the lame department.

Finn stares out across the roof, filled with his classmates, most of whom opted to dish out actual cash for expensive, fancy costumes, like this dance even matters. Then again, most of these people actually have dates, and Finn frowns a little to himself. He really hopes Quinn isn't here.

"You cool?" Sam asks him.

"We can still bail, dude," Mike says. "We can, like, go bowling or something." But his eyes are on Tina as he talks, and Finn knows Mike psyched himself up to talk to her tonight.

"Nah, I'm cool," he assures.

They head over for the tables across the roof, where some of the guys from the football team are hanging out. The roof doesn't look that bad: there's a stage for the DJ, a huge dance floor, and Chinese lanterns hung all around, and the tables each have a table cloth, flowers, and a lit candle.

Finn greets his friends with fist bumps, and then he stands there and waits for time to pass, and he kind of ignores everybody but Sam and Mike. He isn't really surprised when Mike disappears to find Tina, and the best part of his night might be when he raids the cookie table. He loses Sam at that point, too, though, and he starts to kind of wander aimlessly, nodding at people he knows.

And then he runs into Quinn.

She looks really good, in this soft, fluttering green dress, her hair perfectly curled and pinned up, probably by the same lady who does her mom's hair for the movies. "Hi," she says softly. "How are you?"

"Seriously?" he asks her coldly.

She closes her eyes, wincing, and then looks back at him sadly. "I'm sorry," she whispers. Her eyes grow large and wet. "You have no idea how sorry —"

"Don't," he cuts off. "I don't want to do this." He tries to turn away from her. She reaches for him, though, and the words shoot out of him. "I have a date."

She pulls back as if burned. "What? You — you have a date?"

"Yeah, I have a date," he repeats, swallowing thickly as he looks at her broken face. What does she care, anyway? "Can you believe it?" he goes on. "There's somebody who actually _wants_ to go out with me." He turns away again, and this time she doesn't stop him.

He looks for Sam, only to find his friend making out with some girl at a back table. He sighs, shoves his hands in his pockets, and makes a beeline for the door.

Mike catches his eye and nods, as if he understands, and Finn manages to give him a small smile as he leaves the roof. The third landing of the school, where all the boarding kids live, is cool and quiet, and Finn starts down the hall towards the main stairs.

He hears the door open behind him, and he turns, expecting to see Mike, ready to ditch with Finn.

But Quinn stands in front of him. "Finn," she says, her eyes soft.

"What, Quinn? _What_?"

"Please hear me out, Finn," she says. "Please. I know you're mad at me, I know. And I know that I made a mistake, I do, believe me!" She steps closer to him. "And you have no idea how much I wish I could take everything back. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. God, Finn — Finn, I _love_ you."

He flinches. No. She doesn't have the _right_ to say that.

But she only goes on, stepping still closer to him. "I tried so hard to justify everything to myself, and to you, even, but — but I can't. I know that. I don't have an excuse for what I did, other than that I was drunk and insecure and I didn't think. I'm sorry. If I could —"

He can't take this.

"Okay," he says, jaw tight. "I forgive you. Can this be over now?"

"Can what be over?" she asks, a sudden lilt of hope in her voice. "Our fight?"

"This conversation," he replies, his voice hard.

Her face falls. She still doesn't give up. "Finn, don't do this," she says, desperation in her gaze now. "We both came to this dance alone, because the only person we should be with is _each other,_ and —"

"I'm not here alone," he protests.

"Finn," she says, her face pinching slightly in that way of hers, so familiar. "You don't have to lie."

"I'm not lying!" he growls. He is, but he hates the look on her face right now. He kind of just hates her, actually, hates her pretty dress, hates her pretty voice and her pretty eyes and her pretty little lies, and he doesn't want to have this conversation, because he _can't_.

"You _are_," she insists, "and I understand why, but we can move past this, Finn, we can, if only you would —" She falters, her eyes looking past his shoulders.

And he spins around to see another girl in the hall, her eyes wide at her accidental interruption. He doesn't know who she is, doesn't recognise her small frame or her dark hair and dark eyes, but she doesn't have a corsage on, and he can't help himself. He smiles. "Hey. I was just coming to look for you." He looks back at Quinn. "This is my date."

Quinn only stares in disbelief, and when he glances back at the girl, she looks shocked too.

But Quinn can't see his face in that instant, and he mouths _please_ at the girl.

"Finn," Quinn murmurs, and she almost has a tone of _pity_ now.

But the other girl hesitantly steps forward, and she hooks her tiny hand around his elbow and then holds out the other for Quinn. "I'm Rachel." She smiles warmly, and her eyes are shy, but she doesn't look confused anymore.

"You're here with Finn?" Quinn asks flatly.

Rachel nods. "We actually met at this diner on fifth, and we were friends for weeks before we realised we both went to McKinley. Crazy, right? This is our first date — and he forgot my corsage!" She giggles a little and shakes her head, before she leans into Finn, pressing her head against his arm.

She's, like, a really good actress. She smells good, too, but that's not really important.

He look at Quinn, who still looks floored, but the disbelief has faded from her gaze. She totally buys the story. "Um, well, Rachel, this is Quinn," Finn finally says. Quinn nods. Her face has turned sour now. "So, well, I guess we should get back to the dance." He steers Rachel towards the door to the stairs, and she doesn't try to stop him.

They climb the narrow stairs in silence, but the moment they're back on the roof, with the hanging lights, the DJ, and their classmates everywhere, she turns to him and raises her eyebrows. "Is that your ex-girlfriend, or something?"

"Kind of," he says. "Actually, yeah. As of, like, two weeks ago. I'm Finn, by the way. And that was cool, what you did back there."

She smiles. "No problem. Trust me. I've _been_ there." She pauses, and she leans a little closer. She has huge eyes, and they're really dark, but they have these gold threads spiraling in them, and she's actually kind of gorgeous, this random girl who totally went to the bat for him, with her glossy pink lips and her thick, soft dark hair.

"You want to dance?" she asks.

"Ah, what — really?" He's kind of surprised.

She giggles and slaps his arm playfully. "Oh, come on, Finn!" She snares his hand and drags him out towards the dance floor, and he catches sight of Quinn, only a few feet behind where they had stood. Oh. They're still on a fake date.

It's cool, though. She's pretty cool. And it's not like he has anywhere else to be.

The fast, silly, poppy song playing ends even as they settle on the dance floor, and something calmer comes on. Rachel reaches her arms around his neck, and he rests his on her hips. She really is small — the top of her head doesn't even reach his chin. They kind of simply sway to the music, 'cause he really doesn't want to fuck up and step on he feet like a giant oaf.

He's never really known how to act around girls. Like, he can talk to them, but he usually comes off like a doofus. Quinn pretty much asked him out and led him by the hand through their whole relationship — but she probably only wanted to date him for status. And he isn't gonna think about her. He's gonna think about Rachel, who's really cool.

Her dress is made out of this gauzy pink material, and he fingers the material a little. "I'm a fairy princess," she tells him, as if she knows his thoughts, "hence the crown." She tilts her head a little, as if to point at her fake flower headband. "What are you?" She gazes up and down.

"John Connor," he says.

"From _The Terminator_?" she asks. "That's fun."

He grins. He didn't know girls watched movies like that.

"So what's the story?" she goes on.

"What story?"

"With Quinn? Or is that rude of me to ask? I'm sorry. I never really know how to handle these situations. None of my friends have ever really been in serious relationships, although Santana has been in a lot of _relationships_, but that term really applies loosely to her escapades, so I don't know the basic rules for these sorts of conversations."

"Um . . ." He tries to process all of that. "It's cool. She, ah, cheated on me — two weeks ago."

"Oh, I'm — I'm sorry, Finn," Rachel says gently. "My boyfriend of five months cheated on me, too. Or tried to, anyway. It really makes you feel inadequate, doesn't it?" She gazes up intently at him. "Like — like something's _wrong_ with you." She sighs a little, and her fingers brush the back of his neck.

"Yeah," he murmurs. That's _exactly_ how it feels. "Like, I didn't even see it coming. We were together for almost three months, and then I see her car in the parking lot of school, _in the parking lot_, and I go over to say hi, and —" He shakes his head and pushes to the end of the story. "She had some guy in the back seat with her."

"That's terrible, Finn. But, if it means anything, you deserve somebody with more class than that."

He smiles. The song changes, and he playfully takes her hand and twirls her around in time to the faster beat. She laughs as she spins back into him and takes his hands. He hopes she doesn't care that he dances like a club-footed duck.

She doesn't seem to. They trip backwards on one spin, and he knocks into someone dressed like Princess Peach, and then she laughs so hard that she presses her face into his chest to try to calm herself down. (It's actually kind of awesome, having her small, warm body pressed up against his.) The next song is this techno beat, though. She looks up at him, her lips pressed closed and her eyes playful. "No," he says. "Definitely _no_. Come on."

She laughs as he leads her off the dance floor. He swipes an entire bottle of sparking cider from the back of the drinks table and leads her to a table off at the back of the roof.

"I suppose we can't all be excellent dancers," she teases.

"And some of us can't even reach the top shelf of our closet." He taps the top of her head.

"I resent that!" she cries, and he only grins at her as he takes a seat and then pops open the cider.

"So what's _your_ story?" he says. "Some douche cheated on you?"

She nods. "Jesse. He graduated last spring. But last winter, my best friend, in an attempt to be helpful, set out to prove what a jerk he was, and she tried to seduce him. Apparently, she didn't even have to work hard at all. He took the bait. She didn't actually sleep with him of course, but she caught him with his pants down on camera."

"Wow. He really is a douche. Your friend is cool, though."

"She's certainly not boring," Rachel replies. "But, yes, I kind of like her." She smiles.

He feels nervous all of a sudden, because he kind of actually likes this girl. Like, he sort of wants to lean closer to her, and he wants to touch her hair, 'cause it looks so soft, and he wants to kiss her, and, _fuck_, he can see the swell of her breasts when she sits close to him like this.

He takes a swig of the cider and then offers the bottle to her.

"That's not very lady-like," she tells him.

"That's 'cause, see," he leans closer still to her, "I'm not actually a lady." He grins, and she only rolls her eyes and swipes the bottle away from him. She takes a delicate sip, and then she licks her lips, and he glances off to the side and quietly lets out a low breath.

"Anyway," she says, "My best friend convinced me to come to the dance tonight, and we were having a great time until she disappeared, probably to some boarder's bedroom." She shakes her head fondly. "But I haven't dated anyone since Jesse. I like to focus on my studies, and on college applications, and on my voice, of course. I'm a singer."

"That's cool," he says. He doesn't really know anybody into music. Sam plays guitar like a boss, and sometimes they mess around and play some covers together, but only ever in the privacy of his basement. "I play the drums a little," he admits. He takes another sip of cider. "We should, ah, have a jam session or something soon."

Whoa. He sounds like a total _idiot_.

But she claps. "That would be so much fun!"

"Yeah?"

"Do you have your phone?" she asks. "I'll put my number in."

He eagerly pulls his cell out of his pocket, and her fingers brush his as she takes the phone from him. She really does have tiny hands, and these cute little fingers with pink nail polish. He watches her as she types her number into his phone, biting her lip and leaning against him.

"Usually I like to put a star by my name whenever it's in print," she tells him, "because it's a metaphor for _me_ being a star, and metaphors are important, but a smiley face will have to do in this case." She smiles at him and hands back his phone.

"Cool," he says.

"I really am an amazing singer, you know," she goes on. "I plan to go on Broadway some day. It's been my dream since my daddy took me to my first show. He takes me to one every Friday night, and someday he'll come to see _me_ on that stage on a Friday night."

"That's awesome. I've never actually seen a Broadway show."

She gasps. "You're a Broadway virgin?" She touches her hand to his knee as she looks up at him, her eyes bright. "Oh, Finn! We need to fix that!"

"It's a tragedy, huh?"

"You have no idea!" she cries. He laughs, but she only goes on seriously. "I can't stand for this. I'll take you to a show." She nods her head firmly. "What are you plans for next Saturday evening? I can call for tickets _first_ thing tomorrow."

"I'm free," he says.

She beams. "It's a date." She's so close, then, that he can see the freckles on her nose, and he can smell her perfume, this spicy, fruity scent, and his eyes flicker to her lips, and his heart is _racing _—

She draws back suddenly, blinking rapidly, her eyes darting away from his face and then back again. "I'm sorry," she says quickly. "I know you probably aren't ready for —"

"No, I'm —" He grabs her hands before she can stand. "I'm — I really like you. You're cool, Rachel. And — " He pauses, unsure, and they stare at each other. She giggles breathlessly suddenly, looking away and then smiling back up at him, her checks pink. He lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and he grins, laughing a little with her.

She catches his gaze again. "You're cool, too, Finn."

He smiles and looks down bashfully.

"Oh!" she gasps. "I love this song!"

He pauses to listen, and then suddenly _she_ starts to sing.

_"Your sweet moonbeam, / The smell of you in every single dream I dream, / I knew when we collided, / You're the one I have decided, / Who's one of my kind. . . ."_

Her voice quickly overpowers the tinny sound of the voice from the speakers across the roof, and he only stares at her, because she really _can_ sing, and her smile is infectious as she belts out the words, dancing playfully a little in her seat.

_"Hey soul sister, / Ain't that mister mister on the radio, stereo, / The way you move ain't fair you know, / Hey, soul sister, / I don't wanna miss a single thing you do tonight. . . ."_

She stands suddenly and pulls him to his feet, cajoling him into dancing with her.

_"Just in time, I'm so glad you have a one track mind like me, / You gave my life direction, /_

_A game show love connection, we can't deny, / I'm so obsessed, / My heart is bound to beat right out my untrimmed chest. / I believe in you, like a virgin, you're Madonna, / And I'm always gonna wanna blow your mind. . . ."_

He playfully does the lawnmower dance move that Sam likes, and Rachel laughs, and he can't help himself: he sings the next verse with her, and he only grins widely when her eyes go wide.

_"The way you can cut a rug, / Watching you is the only drug I need, / So gangster, I'm so thug, / You're the only one I'm dreaming of! / You see I can be myself now finally, / In fact there's nothing I can't be, / I want the world to see you'll be with me. . . ."_

They finish together, breathlessly, and she claps happily. "You're amazing!" she exclaims.

"Me? You're gonna blow Broadway out of the water!"

She beams, only to bite her lip, and his stomach swoops again as she catches his gaze and holds it.

"You know," she says suddenly, "you can kiss me if you want to."

His breath catches. "I want to."

And he reaches out and cups her head with his hand. His hand trembles a little, but when she presses her own warm hand over his, he can feel how nervous she is, too. He smiles a little, and she does, too, and then he leans forward, still holding her gaze, and he kisses her.

Her lips are soft and smooth against his, and he can't believe this is real. He pulls back, sees her large brown eyes, flecked with gold, gazing back intently at him, and then he _really_ kisses her, letting his other hand fall to her hip and tug her closer to him, her knees brushing his as her mouth opens tentatively under his, and he can taste the cider on her lips, and he wants more, wants to tug her into his lap and kiss his way down her throat and —

He tears away from her, mortified that he's about to cream his fucking pants.

But she starts to smile, and she shyly picks up the empty cider bottle and takes another sip.

And watching her, watching this gorgeous girl who talks a lot but who listens to him, this sweet, adorable, tiny girl who can sing better than _anybody, _he relaxes. He takes the bottle from her, and she smiles at him as he takes a swig.

She leans forward impulsively and kisses his cheek. "I can't wait for Saturday," she says, "but how about one more dance before my ride comes to pick me up at midnight?" Her eye are bright.

He grins. He wants to kiss her again. A lot. But if she wants to dance, he can do that first.

She literally _skips_ out to the dance floor as he trails behind her, and he glances around. Nobody seems to care about Finn and Rachel, first tucked in away in a corner, laughing and singing and kissing, and now dancing, and that somehow seems strange, when he feels like his whole world has tipped upside down.

It's a slow dance, _thank God_, and at one point he sees Sam, and Sam sees him with Rachel, and he gives Finn a big grin and two thumbs up.

Finn only grins, and then he walks her off the roof, to the third landing of the school, now lit and warm and ready for students to trickle through as they leave the dance. She holds his hand as they walk, all the way down the second and then the first landing, and she kisses him again in the entrance hall, standing on her tiptoes and pressing her hands into his chest.

He's already addicted to her kisses.

And how exactly did that happen? (Is it bad that he really doesn't care?)

He heads home, and half way through the drive, his phone goes off. He grins, sure that Rachel, sweet and eager and a little bit crazy, is already calling him. But when he grabs the cell, he frowns at the screen and the words _Quinn Fabray Calling._

He ignores the call.

But a text comes in as he lays in bed, watching some random movie on the television, and this time the screen reads _New Message from Rachel ;) _and he eagerly flips the phone open. The text is simply "goodnight!" but she includes another smiley face, and he texts quickly back "sweet dreams," because he can't really help himself.

* * *

><p>The school is in tumult when he pulls into the parking lot on Friday morning.<p>

Police cars are there, and reporters, too, and he tries to ask what happened, but nobody really knows. As he pushes his way into the building to see if he can find a police officer — 'cause chances are he'll know whoever he finds — he starts to hear the whispers: somebody's dead.

Over the loud speakers, Coach Sylvester announces that all students should report to the auditorium immediately, but Finn ignores that.

He sees his father, and his heart starts to pound.

His dad would only be here if something _really_ bad happened. He rushed out of the house this morning for an emergency call, and now Finn knows for what. His dad looks pissed, too, as he talks with the headmaster at the bottom of the stairs, and Finn pushes his way down the hall towards them. His dad disappears into a classroom with the headmaster, though, before Finn can reach him, and Finn comes face to face with Detective Reynolds instead.

"Morning Huddy," Reynolds greets, sleepless purple smudges under his eyes.

"What happened?" Finn asks. "Why is my dad here?"

"I really can't —"

"Please, Detective. It's something big, isn't it? Is — is somebody dead?"

Reynolds sighs and motions him closer. "Yeah, kid. Somebody's dead." He pauses, and when he finally goes on, his voice is even quieter. "Murdered in his bed last night with two bullets to the head. Your dad's here 'cause it has to do with a case of his. It was a kid that was gonna be a witness for him —"

"Matt," Finn whispers.

"You better head to the auditorium," Reynolds says. "And don't tell anybody I said anything."

Finn nods and turns away, sort of stunned, because this totally means that Hiram Berry had a teenager that goes to school with Finn _murdered_ in his bed because Matt _might_ have been able to point his finger at the man.

And then he nearly runs right into somebody. Rachel.

She has on these sparkly pink flats that clash with her school uniform and match her sparkling pink headband, but he doesn't really focus on that. He focuses on her face, on her expression, on the disbelief and almost _horror_ in her eyes as she stares at him. She must be freaked out about the murder. She must have overheard Reynolds. Wait — does she know Matt?

"You're Finn Hudson," she says.

"Um, what — yeah," he says.

"You're Chris Hudson's son."

He nods slowly. "Is that —"

"I'm Rachel Berry," she tells him.

It takes him a second.

"I'm Hiram Berry's daughter."

**tbc**


	2. Chapter 2

a/n: I know that technically this would be Monday morning, but I haven't gone to sleep yet, so I'm going to call this Sunday night and say I didn't break my promise :) I'm sorry the wait has been so long, but I'll really try to update sooner for chapter three.

And thanks so, so much to Quinn for editing!

* * *

><p>He gapes at her, and he looks as stunned as she feels. "That's not — you —"<p>

She watches him swallow, and his eyes search her face, as if he desperately wants her to grin suddenly and shout "just kidding!" She isn't kidding, though. She _wishes_ she were kidding.

No.

She doesn't. She's perfectly happy with who she is and who her father is. She wishes _he_ weren't who _he_ is. Because how can he be a Hudson? _How_? How can a boy so goofy, so sweet, so absolutely wonderful, possibly be _his_ son_?_

This is a disaster.

She opens her mouth, and an arm slips around her shoulder.

It's Noah. "You need something?" he asks Finn coldly, pulling Rachel securely against his side and jutting his chin at Finn. Noah always seems to find Rachel, no matter where she goes or to whom she talks, and then he always seems to feel the need to assert himself into any situation he decides she can't handle herself.

(She didn't speak to him for two weeks after Matt Rutherford stole a kiss from Rachel her freshman year, her very first kiss, and Noah broke his nose a solid five minutes later.)

"I —" Finn still can't seem to find his voice as his eyes dart from Noah and then back to Rachel.

For the briefest moment, they all stand there in silence as people push around them and Coach Sylvester yet again yells for everyone to report to the auditorium _immediately_. And then Noah, taking a menacing step forward, finally snaps at Finn. "Are you deaf, Guppy?"

And Finn's jaw locks. Rachel can even see his hand curl into a fist.

That can't possibly be a positive development.

"Noah," Rachel intervenes, "don't be a _bully_. I merely asked Finn if he knew what had happened, but he didn't. Honestly. You always jump to conclusions. Now come on. We need to head to the auditorium." She takes his hand and forcefully tugs him away from Finn and down the hallway. She really wants to glance back at Finn, but she resists.

It's not like anything can actually happen between them now. Right?

The moment she and Noah turn the corner, he stops and moves to stand in front of her, and she knows that look on his face. "What was that about?" he asks. "Do you know who that kid is? You do. You called him Finn. It's Finn _Hudson_, Rachel."

"I'm aware," Rachel tells him coolly.

"His dad is Christopher Hudson," Noah goes on. "The dirtiest fucking cop in New York City."

"I'm aware of that, too," she says. "And must you use that vulgar language with me? We've talked about this. If you insist on a colourful vocabulary, _fine_, but please refrain from that kind of talk in front of me. You know it offends me."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Look, don't try to keep the peace and lie to me. Did that fu_dge_head bother you? I know he has beef with me, but if he thinks he can mess with you —"

"He didn't bother me," Rachel insists.

She really doesn't want to talk about this anymore. She doesn't even want to _think_ about this.

"I know his name because we've gone to the same school for several years," she explains to Puck, "and I approached him to ask what had happened, just like I said, because he was the first person I saw. But he didn't have an answer, and I really _would_ like to know what happened, so can we please go to the auditorium now?" She puts her hand on her hip and glares at him.

"Okay. Let's go. But if he does start to bother you —"

"You'll be the first to know, so that you can — without my permission, I might note — intervene."

"Good."

The auditorium is loud when they walk in, and nobody pays any attention to Mr. Schuester, who stands on stage, tapping the microphone and uselessly trying to quiet everyone down. Rachel spots Santana quickly, and she waves and then hurries over, Noah following close behind.

She hears the students talk as she moves down the aisle and then down the row, and thoughts of Finn give way to thoughts of what apparently happened _at the school_ last night. She didn't actually hear anything that the officer told Finn. She was too busy reeling over the realisation of his identity.

What _did_ happen?

"Do you know anything yet?" she asks Santana, sitting down beside her.

"Somebody's dead, apparently," Santana says lazily. She ignores Noah, and he ignores her.

Rachel is more than used to this kind of behaviour; her best friend and her cousin have been in a tumultuous on-again, off-again relationship for years, and after all this time she prides herself in her ability to handle them in their off-again stage with ease.

"That's terrible," Rachel murmurs. "But I've heard the same." She has. It's all over the school that somebody was shot last night. It's only a rumour_, _though_. _Why would anybody shoot a McKinley student? And _in_ McKinley on a random Thursday night, no less?

But _something_'s certainly happened, or they wouldn't be packed into the auditorium right now.

"Dude probably had it coming," Noah says.

Rachel smacks his arm. "How can you even say that?"

He snorts and shakes his head at her, and the room starts to quiet as Coach Slyvester begins to prowl the auditorium aisles and Headmaster Figgins steps out on stage.

"Hey," Santana whispers, leaning towards Rachel. "What happened to you last night?"

"What happened to me?" Rachel repeats quietly. "I'm not the one who disappeared before ten. What happened to_ you?_" She raises her eyebrows expectantly at Santana, who only grins lecherously. "Nevermind," Rachel goes on quickly. "I don't want to know."

Santana starts to laugh, but Sylvester quiets her in an instant, and then suddenly Figgins starts to talk, and he uses phrases like "shocking turns of events" and "do not despair, _but_" and "any information you may have could be of use." Students finally start to hurl questions at him, though. What actually happened? Is someone dead? Who is it? Mr. Figgins only splutters inarticulately.

And then Christopher Hudson walks out on stage.

Rachel doesn't like to hate people, but if she were ever to hate anyone, she would hate Christopher Hudson, and she won't even try to deny that. She knows _all_ about that man, and all the terrible abuses he commits as a police officer. People like that make her sick.

Her mind flickers briefly to Finn, but she can't think about him right now. She _can't_.

"Last night," he announces, "at around 11:50 pm, Matthew Rutherford was murdered in his bed."

Chaos erupts, but Rachel doesn't hear anything anyone says. Matt? Her first kiss, Matt? The boy she helps tutor in math on Mondays and Wednesdays, Matt? Sweet, quiet, innocent _Matt_? Her stomach churns, and her heart pounds, and Chris Hudson only goes on, asking anyone with information to report immediately to the police.

Classes are cancelled for the day, and they're released a few minutes later, free to return home. "I can't believe this," Rachel says, still reeling. "I can't believe a murderer would come into our school and kill someone. What if he comes back? What if —?"

"Nobody'll touch you, Rach," Noah says. "And Hudson shouldn't have gone off and told everybody about the murder and freaked everybody out. Isn't this a school? What kind of shitty police officer is he?"

Along with half the school, they spill out into the parking lot, where at least half a dozen limos, sent by worried parents, are already lined up and waiting to take students home. Rachel turns automatically towards where Noah parked his SUV, only to freeze when she sees the car.

Two police officers stand by his SUV.

Rachel feels Noah stiffen beside her, and she grabs his hand and glances at Santana, who looks furious as her eyes narrow at the two men. Rachel looks around for a teacher, for anybody at all to help, but she finds no one before Noah starts forward again, towards the SUV. He tears his hand from Rachel's grasp as he goes, but she still follows helplessly after him, and Santana does, too.

They're tall, the police officers, one with a face like a frog, the other with small, crooked blue eyes, and both with scowls, and they straighten when Noah, Rachel, and Santana approach.

"Can I help you?" Noah spits at them.

"Mr. Noah Puckerman?" the taller man asks.

Rachel reaches for Noah's hand again. She knows what these police want. People often assume the worst of Noah simply because he takes care of his own. And the police _always _try to mistreat him under orders from that vacuous cow, Hudson. That man probably thinks Noah is to blame for what happened to Matt. He might have once punched her old flame, but Noah would never _kill_ him.

The very idea is — it's — it's absurd, and it's outrageous, and it's absolutely _unimaginable_!

"It's Puck," Noah says, his voice tight. "You wanna bring me in?"

"No!" Rachel protests. She surges forward. "You have absolutely no reason to talk to him," she tells the police. "None! This is absurd, and it's outrageous, and it's —"

"It's fine, Rachel," Noah interrupts, and he stares hard at her, silently reminding her what her papa always told them. She shouldn't say anything. That's a rule. The police can twist whatever a person says to make him or her look guilty. She nods at Noah. She won't break the rule.

"If you refuse to come with us voluntarily, Puckerman —" the frog man starts.

"I'll come," Noah says.

Nobody listens to Rachel when she protests. Noah promises her that he'll be fine, that he'll call her papa, that he'll see her in a few hours, and then the police start to walk him to their squad car. But Noah can't simply leave with the police, like he's some sort of criminal —

"He'll be fine," Santana promises Rachel over and over again, even as she steers Rachel towards her limo. "He'll be fine, just like he always is. Chris Hudson just wants to piss off your dad and look like he has a suspect to prove that he doesn't have shit for brains."

Rachel nods and tries to believe that.

But she can't. This is all too much.

She starts the day with the revelation that the man of her dreams is the son of the worst man in New York City, then she finds out Matt Rutherford was murdered in his bed at her school, and now her cousin has been taken by the police, probably as a suspect for that murder.

This is a _nightmare. _

And what if they try to interrogate him with physical violence?

She wouldn't put that past Christopher Hudson.

"He. Will. Be. Fine."

Rachel glances at Santana and nods again. But —

She only panics more and more as the twenty minute drive passes. As soon as the Limo drops her off, she races into the house. "Daddy!" she shouts. "Daddy!" She runs into Mrs. Proctor, the housekeeper, who points her to his office. She knocks and then pushes open the door, too impatient to wait for permission to enter. "Is Noah okay?" she asks immediately.

But then she pulls up short only when she realises her daddy isn't alone: Mr. Ryerson and Mr. Tanaka are both there, and so is Howard, and even her papa. They all go silent when she bursts into the room, and her dad looks at her from behind his desk with soft surprise in his gaze. "Princess," he greets quietly, a question in his voice.

Noah obviously hasn't called her papa yet, despite his promises to her.

Wait. What if the police haven't _let_ him call her papa?

"I — I'm sorry, Daddy, but I need to talk to you. And to Papa. It's about Noah."

He smiles. "Of course." He glances at Mr. Ryerson, Mr. Tanaka, and Howard. "We'll finish this later," he says. "You know what I need, Sandy. Ken. And I'll expect to hear from you by tomorrow night, Howard."

They all nod and leave, and Rachel smiles politely as they pass her. She doesn't much care for Mr. Ryerson or Mr. Tanaka, but they're family, and her daddy raised her to treat family well. She still smiles brightest for Howard, though, because he might not be family, but he's always so sweet. Howard shuts the door behind himself, and her daddy beckons her further into the room.

He looks concerned. "Shouldn't you be at school?"

"Did something happen, Peaches?" her papa asks. "Did somebody bully you?"

"No, Papa, it's Noah — the police took him! Didn't he call you, Papa? He said he would!" She looks back and forth between her fathers, watching as her daddy straightens in his seat and glances at her papa, who shakes his head curtly.

"It's that awful Mr. Hudson," she cries. "He probably won't let Noah call a lawyer! He was at school this morning, and I know he told his officers to arrest Noah and —"

"To arrest him?" Papa asks sharply. "They arrested him?"

"Yes — no — I don't know!"

"Okay, okay, calm down," her papa says, and he takes her gently by the hand and pulls her into his lap. She takes a few deep breaths as he rubs her back gently. "What happened?" he asks.

"There was a murder last night at school," she tells them. "It was Matt. Do you remember Matt? I tutor him — I _tutored_ him, and last night somebody killed him in his bed at McKinley, and they released us from classes today, and then in the parking lot these police officers came, and they were at the SUV, and they told Noah he had to come down to the station with him. He agreed, but he said he intended to call you, Papa. But he didn't, did he?"

"They probably haven't let him," her daddy says, his mouth a thin line. "Go now," he tells her papa. "And contact Moraski, see what he knows."

Her papa nods, and Rachel stands to let him stand. He'll help Noah, right? He gives her a small smile and leaves, and she watches the door snap shut behind him.

"It'll be okay," her daddy tells her, pulling her attention to him. "I _promise_." He smiles.

"Matt was _murdered_, Daddy," she whispers.

"And that's terrible," Daddy says, nodding. "His family must be devastated. But a smart soul worries first about his own family, and for us that's Noah, isn't it? And Noah will be fine. We'll sort this mess right out, just like we always do. Okay?" He touches her hair affectionately.

"Okay," Rachel says quietly.

"Remember," he goes on. "Bad things happen to good people, but —" He raises his eyebrows.

"But the best people make sure nothing happens to _their_ people," Rachel recites.

He smiles. "And who always takes care of his people?"

"You do, Daddy," she says, and she finally smiles, too, as she looks up at him, wearing his favourite brown pinstripe suit and a pair of round, red-rimmed glasses, his hair thinning at the top. He looks like he always does. He looks like the man she adores.

"That's right. I _always_ take care of my people. Come here." He stands, and she steps forward to hug him tightly, because she always feels so safe when she hugs him.

Noah will be okay. Her daddy would never let anything happen to him. He never lets _anything_ bad happen to any of his family, and she can always count on that. Christopher Hudson might be the most terrible, corrupt man in New York, but Rachel can always count on her daddy.

That will never change.

She pulls back to smile at him, wiping her few stray tears.

"I need to make some calls now," he tells her, "but why don't you bake a batch of cookies for Noah? Papa will surely take him back to the house, and you can greet him with some cookies. That would be nice, wouldn't it? Let's see. He loves the peanut butter chip best, doesn't he?"

"Daddy, those are _your_ favourite," Rachel says.

"Oh, well, if you'd like to make them —" He shrugs innocently.

"Daddy!" She giggles despite everything, and he taps her nose.

Aunt Julia stops by the house soon after, and Rachel knows her daddy must have called her to tell her what happened. Rachel adores her aunt, a small, thin, bony woman with thick, curly, black hair and a smile that reminds Rachel of Noah, but her aunt tends to panic easily.

She certainly beats the cookie dough a little _too_ hard while they wait.

But Papa does bring Noah home, and Noah hugs her and tells her "those police bitches" couldn't "do a damned shit" to him, which only makes her shake her head in exasperation. Where did he even learn language like that? She offers him some cookies, and then she starts a second batch when Noah disappears into her daddy's office with her fathers.

Is he really okay?

It seems like it.

He emerges from the office after a little while, and Mrs. Proctor makes popcorn, and her dads and Noah all watch _Funny Girl_ with her. Daddy even sings some of the songs. Of course, the boys want to watch _Fast and Furious_ after that. She falls asleep half way through the movie.

The rest of the weekend passes as if nothing even happened.

She does her homework, has a pedicure with Santana, and beats her fathers at Chinese Checkers three times in a row on Saturday night. She goes to dance classes, does Jazzercise with Aunt Julia, and makes Noah go for a Sunday morning run with her.

Of course, when she arrives at school on Monday, the illusion shatters.

Her daddy might have assured her that Christopher Hudson only arrested Noah to make trouble, that Noah is in no real trouble, yet here at school that isn't what matters: Matt is _dead_.

The whole school is abuzz with what happened. The boarders who spent the weekend at the school don't know any more than the commuters like Rachel, and no matter how normal the teachers try to act, people want to talk about Matt, about what happened, about the police. Of course, plenty of people have heard that the police talked to Noah Puckerman, but Rachel turns her nose up at that kind of talk, thank you very much.

And then she walks into seventh period and realises she has biology with Finn Hudson, and everything becomes even _more_ complicated.

* * *

><p>She squats down and reaches her hand forward tentatively.<p>

"Hello Eustace," she murmurs. "Hello. I'm Rachel. It's so nice to meet you. You're such a handsome turtle, Eustace. Is this your favourite creek?"

How can somebody who names a turtle Eustace and then talks to him incessantly be _bad_?

Finn watches her for a minute, and then he glances over his shoulder. Most of the class have moved down to listen to Mrs. Martin explain something or other about the creek. But Finn doesn't even pay attention in this class ever anyway, and this is, like, the perfect chance to talk to Rachel.

He knows she saw him earlier.

She walked into biology, and she looked _straight_ at him, eyes round with shock.

Apparently they've been in this class together for two months, but they've never noticed each other. That's not so crazy, though. There're twenty something other people here, too, and Finn usually sits with Sam and ignores everybody else. But, well, at the same time, he feels a little weird that he never noticed Rachel, with her shiny hair and her pretty smile and her infectious giggle.

He definitely noticed her today.

And she can't pretend she didn't see him. She's been trying to, though.

After she simply stared at him for a solid minute, her wide eyes suddenly darted in the complete opposite direction, and she went to sit at an empty lab table at the front of the room. He couldn't see her face anymore, but he could see how tightly she held her back, and he wondered if she spent all weekend like he did — freaked out.

He still wonders.

Mrs. Martin took them outside for a "fun" lab in "the great outdoors," and he's basically stared at Rachel the entire time.

She totally saved his ass from Quinn, and then they danced and talked and kissed _twice_, and they made a date for this Saturday, too, and then suddenly Matt is dead and Rachel is the daughter of a murdering mobster maniac and what the fuck? Seriously?

It just seems so _wrong_ for Hiram Berry even to have a kid.

And, okay, Finn totally knew Hiram Berry had a daughter. Plenty of times before, during rants and raves, his dad has mentioned that the jackass has a whole family and a nice big house in the suburbs and even sends his precious little girl to private school. But for that precious little girl to be Rachel? Finn did _not_ see that mindfuck coming.

Because Rachel is pretty much the coolest girl he's ever met, and she's part of the _mob._ Or is she?

Her dad might be, but that doesn't automatically mean. . . .

It's all he's thought about all weekend.

His mom went on a business trip (and, yeah, he knows what those are _actually_ about), his dad spent the entire weekend at the station, and Finn had the house to himself. He played a little Halo with Sam and Mike on Saturday, but otherwise he spent the entire weekend with his mind on her.

Her dad had Matt Rutherford killed. He probably even had Puckerman do the job. Along with half the school, Finn saw two detectives take Puck in — and he saw Rachel freak out when they did, like she couldn't believe anybody would dare blame Noah. Finn kinda wanted to go to the station and see how that turned out, but then his dad would've trapped him there.

He stayed at his house instead, and he thought about Rachel.

It's totally pathetic, but she _isn't_ a part of the mob, is she?

She probably honestly thinks Noah is innocent, and so is her dad. But then why did she look so horrified when she found out who he was? Wouldn't he just be any random guy to her? Wouldn't his dad? If she's not, like, a part of the family business or whatever, why would she care about his family's business?

He needs to know for sure.

He makes sure yet again that they're alone, because he totally doesn't want to explain this to Sam, and then he walks slowly towards her. "Hey."

Her head snaps to him. And she shoots up to her feet suddenly and crosses her arms over her chest.

"Are you here to _arrest_ me?" she demands sharply.

He balks. "What? No. I'm — I'm in this class, too. You saw me earlier. I mean, I know it's hard to believe I'm in AP bio, but I am. I swear." He cuts his own ramble off short then, and she only continues to stare at him suspiciously, like _he_'s the one whose dad is a fucking killer.

"What do you want?" she asks.

"I wanted to talk to you," he replies. He does. He's not sure what there is to say to her, but he can't just _not_ talk to her ever again. That would be so messed up and stuff, and everything at McKinley and in his life is already messed up enough.

"You're Finn _Hudson_," she says.

"Yeah."

"And I'm Rachel _Berry_."

"Yeah," he repeats. "And I still wanna talk to you. Just for, like, a second, okay?"

"No," she says. "It's not okay. You're Finn Hudson. _Your_ father arrested my cousin simply to spite _my_ father just three days ago! And I don't know what game you meant to play on Thursday, but I'll have you know that I —"

"I didn't — I'm not playing a _game_. I'm not. Seriously. I'm not, and I wasn't. And my dad probably wanted to talk to your cousin 'cause, you know, there was a murder at school."

"Noah had nothing to do with that," she snaps.

And he believes her. Or at least he believes that _she_ believes that.

It's not just that he wants to. That look in her eyes? How imploringly she stares at him, like she's willing him to believe the same because it's true, and she knows it, and she can't believe anybody in the whole wide wouldn't know it too? That's not an act.

Her dad might be the worst fucking man in New York, but she's not a part of that.

"Okay," he says. "I don't even know — I don't wanna talk about that. My dad brought him down to the station, not me — it's not like I'm a police officer, too. And, I mean, I haven't even talked to my dad since, like, Thursday morning." He pauses, but she doesn't say anything. "You can't even talk to me?" he says

"What is there to talk about?" she asks, but her voice isn't so sharp and guarded anymore.

He shrugs. "I'm not good at this stuff."

It's quiet, and he runs a hand over his hair, frustrated. He wants her to say something. She only stares at him. "Look," he says, "all I know is that I met this super cool girl at the dance, and I fell really hard for her, and we were even gonna go out, but she apparently hates me now 'cause her dad hates my dad, and I just. . . ."

"I don't hate you," she says softly. "But I just — Finn, my family is the most important thing to me. My cousin and my aunt and my daddy? They're my whole world. And my daddy really, truly _hates_ your father. He says he's the most corrupt cop in New York City."

"I'm not my dad, Rachel," he tells her. He's not.

"No, but even if you're not your dad, you obviously don't think so highly of my dad. I don't even want to imagine what kind of lies your father has fed you. And would your father really want you to date me?"

He doesn't really have a response. She's right. He can only imagine if he went to the office after school and announced that he'd started dating Rachel Berry. He knows that, he does, and this whole conversation is just a reiteration of everything he argued over with himself during the weekend. But —

"We can't go out on Saturday. I'm sorry." She won't meet his gaze, and he simply watches her as she turns away from him to say goodbye to Eustace, and then she walks past him, back towards the edge of the woods and the school. "Come on," she says. "The bell rings soon. The rest of the class has already probably already returned to school."

She's right. He follows her, and they don't talk. There's nothing left to say.

But as they emerge from the woods she finally looks at him.

"For what it's worth," she says, "I really liked you."

He nods. "For what it's worth, I still really like you," he replies. It's the truth. "Rachel —"

"Goodbye, Finn."

But he isn't going to settle for that. He grabs her arm.

"_Rachel_." He isn't really sure what else to say, though.

She must see something pitiful in his gaze, because her shoulders sag, and she looks up at him sadly. "Nothing can happen between us, Finn. Besides, even if we weren't who we are, even if our fathers weren't who they are, we still wouldn't work, because you're still hung up on your last girlfriend. Quinn, remember? And I don't want to be a rebound."

He shakes his head, but he can never put his thoughts into words fast enough, and she goes on.

"Before we met at the dance, we didn't exist to each other. We passed one another in the halls, and we had bio together, and we probably had classes together last year or the year before that, too. But we didn't care, because I had my friends and you had yours. Let's go back to that, okay?"

He still can't really think of the right words, and she turns away and continues the trek back to the school. She's already a solid twenty feet away when he finally murmurs the words. "But we _did_ meet." He frowns to himself.

The bell rings. It's actually the last bell — classes are over for the day.

He makes his way into the school, picks up his backpack from the bio classroom, and talks a little with Sam, who thinks the lab was totally awesome and wants to know why Finn disappeared. By the time Finn actually starts through the parking lot towards his Ford Explorer, most of the school has cleared out.

He pops the trunk, shoves his stuff in the back, shoves the door shut again —

— and somebody rams him in the stomach. Finn stumbles backwards, slamming against the side of the car, and looks up to see Noah Puckerman, with two thuggish kids beside him, Karofsky and Azimio. Finn starts forward only for Azimio to pound him in the stomach, and when Finn takes a swing at him, Karofsky punches him in the fucking _throat_.

"What the fuck?" Finn growls. He doesn't know where any help is, and he doesn't really care.

He glares furiously at Puckerman, who glares right back.

"You think you can mess with her, and I won't notice?" Puckerman says, and he steps forward, face contorted. "And I won't _care_? You think I'm stupid, Hudson? Do I look like a fucking retard to you?" He cracks his knuckles and then abruptly shoves Finn in the chest.

Finn shoves him back before Azimio or Karofsky can stop him.

They pin him against the car an instant later.

"Get the fuck off me," he hisses. "I don't even know what you're fucking talking about."

"You don't know?" Puckerman scoffs. "What? You think I didn't see you come out of the woods behind school with my cousin? I saw you in the hall on Thursday, and I saw you in the woods, and if I see you with her again —"

"We have bio together, you jackass," Finn snarls. "Mrs. Martin took us outside for a lab." He surges forward furiously when Puckerman simply starts to shake his head at Finn, and Karofsky tightens his grip on him. Finn elbows him in the side, fury coiling inside him. "Get. Off. Me."

"Or what? You'll tell Daddy?" Puck laughs. "We've never come to blows before, Hudson, but that's because you, unlike your daddy, mind your own business. Or you did." He steps close to Finn, nearly spitting in his face as he talks. "I know how this goes," he says. "I know you'll be the next dumb, dirty cop that uses his shiny badge to stick his nose where it shouldn't be, and you and me are gonna have some problems."

Finn grits his teeth and simply stares back at him. He isn't scared of Noah fucking Puckerman, with his dumbass mohawk and his thugs for friends.

"But if you try to stick your _dick_ where it shouldn't be, I will fucking _kill_ you." He jabs Finn in the chest, as if daring him to try to fight back.

Finn curls his hands into fists. "I didn't know you cared so much about my dick, Puckerman."

Puckerman starts to laugh, and then he hits Finn so hard in the stomach Finn doubles over.

_Motherfucker_.

"I'm only gonna say this once more," Puckerman snarls. "Stay away from Rachel."

He punches Finn again, and Karofsky and Azimio both get in another hit, and then they're gone, just like that, and Finn clutches his stomach and leans against the car. He can barely _breathe_. He looks around, and he sees a few people, but nobody will even look in his direction.

People in this school _do_ mind their own business.

But, what, Puckerman thinks Finn'll take that shit lying down? No. Fucking. Way.

He's at the police station in twenty minutes.

"He's in his office, Huddy!" Detective Green says, and Finn nods. He finds his dad on the phone, his nostrils flaring as he grunts every couple of seconds. He sees Finn, nods at the chair, and then says loudly, interrupting somebody, "I agree completely. It's a priority, don't you worry. Children first, isn't that right?" And he violently hangs up the phone.

"You know who that was?" he asks. Finn shakes his head. "Your headmaster. Fellow won't leave me alone. Like I'm not police! Like I don't have work to do! Like I won't solve a fucking homicide if he doesn't remind me that he and the school are _under pressure_. I'll tell you something — _I'll tell you something_! He doesn't know what pressure is! Ha!" He leans back in his seat, only to sit up again an instant later.

"And he's had phone calls, he tells me!" he cries. "You know who called him? You know who picked up a goddamn phone and whined to Headmaster Figgins about the safety of his daughter? _Hiram Berry_! Can you fucking believe it?"

Finn offers kind of a half shrug, half shake of the head, and that seems to satisfy his father.

"I'll tell you, kid," his dad says. "I've caught hell for this murder. It's been a shitfest since Friday morning — all weekend long. And damn if that boy didn't know something. Had to. _Had to_! He was my fucking golden ticket, I tell you! And Berry went and fucking killed him." He pulls a bottle of scotch out from his desk and starts to pour himself a glass.

"But he thinks he can pull one over on me? I'll show that bastard. I'll show him. I brought his nephew in on Thursday. Noah Puckerman, you know. Made him sweat. We've got squat on him now, but we'll get the kid. We'll get him. I'll bring that whole fucking family down, see every last little baby with the name Berry behind bars." He downs his glass.

"Hell, by the time I'm through with them — you wait and see, by the time I'm finished with those bastards — they'll be nothing left of 'em. I'll even make sure I squeeze every last fucking drop of dirty money outta him, too. His precious perfect little darling daughter'll be living at the fucking Salvation Army. How do you think he'd like that?" He laughs a little. "Mobster aren't gonna live in luxury in my city. I don't think so, son. Not my city."

Finn stares at him. He can't think of what to say. Has his dad met Rachel before?

Does he actually know anything about that precious perfect little darling daughter? Does he know how sweet and earnest and completely _innocent_ she is? Does he know that she can sing _so_ good, and she loves Broadway, and she names random animals Eustace?

"What's with you, huh? You look like you can't take a shit."

Anger rises up in Finn at the reminder, as if the dull thud in his whole torso weren't reminder enough, and he opens his mouth to tell his dad exactly what did happen. But his dad doesn't give him the chance.

"You rough housing with your boys? Sammy Evans, right? Gale Evans's always done right by me. Good woman. Good judge. And, let's see, that Asian boy, too? Right? Marty, isn't it? You play a little ball with 'em? Take some hits? Boys'll be boys, huh?" He grins.

"Yeah," Finn says. "We were . . . it was just — football, you know."

He doesn't know where the lie comes from. It just _happens_.

"Sure, sure," his dad says. He starts to pour himself another glass of scotch. "Your mama asks any questions, I'll cover, huh? Boys'll be boys!" He chuckles and leans back in his seat again.

Finn swallows thickly. Why did he lie? Puck beat him up and threatened to kill him. But —

_Rachel_.

His dad wouldn't even really be able to help Finn, and all he would do is fan the fire, and he would have to find a way to leave Rachel out of this mess. Because she really is out of this mess, Puckerman and her dad and that whole Polish mob have kept her out, and Finn can't bring her in.

He can't.

"I'll tell you, kid. This case — this'll be the case of my career, I swear to God. Berry thinks he can kill my witness and cover his ass, does he? Thinks he can fuck me and I'll bend over and take it, does he? I won't, you hear? I won't!" His cheeks flush as he finishes his second glass. "No, I'mma fuck that man right fucking back. And you'll help me, huh?"

"I —"

"That's why you're here, isn't it? I'mma put you on Puckerman," his dad says. "He did the job. I know it. And we let him go — told him we were good Americans who believed a man innocent until proven guilty. Load a shit. I know he killed my boy Matty, I know he did, and all I need to do is find the proof." He slams his hand down against the desk.

"And once I do?" he says, repeating the words with spit flying, _"_once I fucking do_?_"

He smiles grimly, and then suddenly he rams his finger against the desk like he did the glass. "Once I do, it'll lead me to Berry," he says, "and I'll put that motherfucker outta business." He pours himself yet another glass of scotch, and Finn watches in surprise when he pulls out a second glass and fills that, too.

"You've gotta sniff around, kid," his dad tells him. "He goes by Puck, this little punk. You sniff around, and I wanna know everything about Puckerman, wanna know what mistake he might've made. And it'll be his last mistake, isn't that what they say, huh? You'll find that mistake. This one's on you, you hear?" He hands Finn the fresh glass of scotch. It doesn't happen often, but his father has given him a drink before.

"We'll bring those bastard Berrys down together. How about it?"

He raises the glass. Finn raises his, and they tap glasses.

"We'll bring 'em down, son. We'll bring 'em down."

But Finn isn't so sure he wants to help with that. At _all_.

* * *

><p>She loves Sherlock Holmes.<p>

If the books were ever made into a musical, she isn't sure which role she would take, but she'd certainly enjoy the thrilling tales come to life on the Broadway stage. And every story is better on the Broadway stage.

She smiles a little to imagine herself Sherlock on stage, singing the name of the criminal to Watson, and turns a page in _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ as she takes another sip of her Virgin Strawberry Daiquiri. Gus doesn't put Virgin Strawberry Daiquiris on the menu, but he always makes them special for her whenever she asks.

"Hey."

Her eyes fly up to land on Finn Hudson. She's never seen him here before, but here he clearly is, a to-go cup of coffee in his hand, and he's staring at her as he waits for a response to what she suspects is his standard greeting.

"Hi Finn," she says. It's only been two days since they talked in biology in Monday, but already how terribly she treated him in their brief conversation has managed to fester into guilt inside her. Still, neither she nor he can ignore the heart of the matter.

"Can I — can I sit?" he asks. "With you?" He nods at the booth.

She should say no, shouldn't she?

"Of course." She gives him a small smile and closes her book. She avoids his gaze, though, as she smoothes the skirt of her pink and purple checkered dress and tucks a little of her hair behind her ear. She finally does look at him, though, in his jeans and his green sweater, so adorable yet so simply _handsome_, this giant boy who claims to like her despite everything.

"I've never seen you here before," she says.

"Yeah, I don't really . . . I actually came here to find you."

"Oh."

"I mean, at the dance, you told Quinn — I mean, I know it was only a lie, but you said we met on a diner at fifth, and I thought maybe it wasn't completely a lie, or, like, it came from somewhere, you know, so. . . ." He clams up and take a sip of his coffee.

"I do come here a lot," Rachel says. "But you really shouldn't have gone to so much trouble. First of all, if you really need to talk to me, school remains a perfectly acceptable medium for that. Second of all —"

"You avoided me at school all day yesterday," he cuts in. "And I need to talk to you, just you and me, with nobody else around. It was a shot in the dark to try this place, and I actually went into a couple of other places, but. . . ." He shrugs.

He is very lucky that she comes here so often, but maybe she should wish he were a little _less_ lucky. She takes a sip of her Daiquiri, and she knows he wants her to say something, but she isn't so sure he wants to hear what she _needs_ to say.

"We've talked about this, Finn," she says.

"Yeah," he says, "but I kind of have some more stuff to, like, contribute to the conversation."

"Finn —"

"What you said about how you would be a rebound?" he starts, apparently unwilling to hear her necessary interruptions. "That's not true. It's — it's not that when you met me, I was all hung up on Quinn, 'cause I wasn't. I was, like, it was — I was hung up on the fact that Quinn cheated on me. Not hung up on her. Does that make sense?"

"It does," she says. "But —"

"Quinn's really pretty — like, totally hot and —" He stops, this look on his face, and she bites back a smile despite herself. "And she's popular and everybody likes her," he finally goes on, "and she liked _me_, and that made me feel so awesome, but she never actually treated me that well. Like, it was like she always wanted to make me into this perfect boyfriend, or something, and. . . ."

"I'm sorry," she tells him. She is.

He smiles a little at her. "I know. But I just — I need you to know that when I asked you for help at the dance, it wasn't to make her jealous. It was just to make her leave me alone. I just wanted her off my back, you know?"

She nods.

"Rachel, I had more fun with you at the dance than I ever had with Quinn."

She really wants to smile now, too. It's so wrong, but how can she not when he says something like that to her? She knows they can't be together, and she's firmly avoided even the idea, but how can she avoid that with him right here in front of her?

"That night, I felt like — I don't even know," he says. "You're just really awesome, and —" He pauses, catching her gaze again. "I'm not hung up on her," he says. "I'm really not. Right now? I'm hung up on _you_."

How can he say something like that to her? "_Finn_ —"

"I want to be with you, Rachel," he insists. "We can at least — I want to give us a try. Because I think — I think we could be really great. I know that sounds totally lame and stupid, but —"

"It doesn't," Rachel interrupts. "It doesn't at all, Finn. It sounds the complete opposite, I promise." The admission simply _pours_ out of her. "I think we could be really great, too." She bites her lip. "But — but, Finn, our families _hate_ each other. And your father had my cousin interrogated for no reason at all!"

"I'm not my father," he tells her. "I'm not. You can't blame me for the stuff he does."

"He's still your family," she says. "You can't escape that."

"Escape what? He's my dad, yeah. I don't want anything bad to happen to him. But we're not even that close. He works all the time, and the stuff he does — I don't — I'm not him, Rachel, and I don't want to become him. You've got to believe that. I don't even wanna be a police officer."

"Really?" she asks. "I would've assumed you did."

"I've never wanted to be one," he says. "I don't want to be a police officer, not anything _close_ to a police officer. I don't to be a security guard, or a bodyguard, or a — a fireman, or — or — a guy who plays a police officer in a movie. Nothing!"

She giggles. "I think I've gathered the gist of your point," she says.

"Our dads have beef with each other," he says. "I know that. I'm not trying to say they don't. It goes way beyond that he's the police and your dad is . . . whatever he is. They have beef, for, like, who knows what reason. They do, and if they didn't, we wouldn't even have to have this conversation, 'cause we'd already be together. I mean . . . right?'"

She should say no. She should tell him that he's very sweet, and she enjoyed his company on Thursday night, but they really wouldn't have worked. She already admitted, though, how special they could be, and, honestly, looking at him now, she can't suddenly lie. She simply can't.

"Right," she admits softly.

He reaches out and touches her hand, his fingertips to her knuckles, and she stares at him, and he stares back. He smiles, and she does a little, too, and then he takes her hand completely in hers, and she hesitantly curls her fingers around his hand.

"I'm sorry that my dad messed with your cousin," he tells her. "He hates your family, Rachel. I'm not gonna lie. My entire life, he's told me how awful your dad is and that he wants to see him behind bars. He told me that Monday afternoon, just, like, half an hour after we talked. But the whole time I sat in his office, and he talked about how much he hated your dad and your cousin?"

He pauses. "Rachel, I just wanted him to shut up. I couldn't take it. All I thought about was you, and how I just wanted to be with you, and how I wish my dad would just leave me out of everything. I'm not my dad, and I don't care one way or the other about your dad.

"I just care about you."

He really knows the right thing to say.

"But — it's only — my daddy would _never_ let me date you," she tells him. "He absolutely adores me, and he wants the best for me, and I can't imagine he would ever grant you that title."

"Yeah," Finn says slowly, "not at first, but if we turned out to be something special, or whatever, wouldn't he come around? If he adores you, doesn't he want you to be happy? And if I could make you happy, then wouldn't he come around?"

"I . . . I guess so. But —"

"We just won't tell him until we see if this goes anywhere." He intertwines their fingers. "If it doesn't, he never has to know. If it does, then he'll be happy for you, right?"

She watches his Adam's Apple bob in his throat, and she realises suddenly not only how earnest he is but also how _nervous_ he is. He really does care about her, doesn't he? He really means everything he says, and how can she judge him for the way his father acts? He clearly refuses to let whatever his father has told him about hers to cloud his judgment of her.

And —

"We won't tell anybody," he says, going on as if he needs to fill the silence. "It'll just be me and you, and nobody else has to be mixed up in it. What do you — what do you say?"

"Okay," she breathes.

"Yeah?" he says, eyes lighting up.

She smiles. "Yes. Okay." But an instant later she sees Theresa wink at her, and she tears her hand away from Finn. She agreed to date Finn secretly, yet here she is with him at the diner. "But you need to leave," she says.

"Leave? You mean here?"

She nods. "Right now. And I'll think of what to say to Theresa. Gus is in the back, so we're fine with him. Theresa should be easy to distract."

"I don't . . ."

"My daddy is friends with Gus and his wife Theresa," she clarifies.

He frowns. "So . . ."

She really isn't explaining this well. She points at the menu tucked behind the salt and pepper shakers and the block letters that spell out _Gus's Eats_. Even as she does, though, and understanding dawns on his face, Theresa approaches. "Can I bring you two anything?" she asks.

"We're fine," Rachel says. "I'm actually on my way out, and — it's Jack, isn't it?"

He freezes for a second, but then he nods, first at her and then turning to nod at Theresa. He really needs some acting lessons, but he looks cute nonetheless.

"Right," Rachel says. "Jack really only came to run in and out for coffee, but he saw that I'm a Sherlock fan, like he is, and we lost track of time. Thank you for reminding us, Theresa! You know how easily the world of Sherlock can draw a person in."

Theresa chuckles. "Of course, Rachel. It was nice to meet you, Jack. Come back and see us again."

Finn nods and starts to stand. Rachel presses her hand to his arm, though, as she passes him. "Go to the bathroom before you leave," she hisses. "I don't want her to see us leave together and start asking too many questions."

She knows exactly how they need to handle this situation.

He follows her instructions perfectly, and she leaves the diner, book tucked under her arm. She waits at the end of the block, and when she sees him emerge from the diner a minute or two later, she waves until he catches sight of her. She sees his grin from twenty feet away.

He hurries over. "That was really awesome, what you just did," he tells her.

"Thank you," she says. "I am a superb actress." They smile at each other for a second, and she laughs suddenly, because the _way_ he looks at her makes her tingle from the top of her head to the tip of her toes, and — and she grabs his hand and tugs him around the corner and into the alley.

"I don't know if we can swing a Broadway show, but how about something off-Broadway? I'll buy us tickets. We can meet there on Saturday night. I'll tell Santana our secret, and she can be my excuse. She's very trustworthy, don't worry."

"I won't worry," he says, smiling again. "And that sounds good. But you — you wanna do something now, maybe?"

She shakes her head. "I should go home, actually. But —" She bites her lip.

And she surges up to her tiptoes and kisses him.

He's shocked at first, she can tell, but then his hands are on her waist, and he returns her kiss. She can taste coffee on his tongue, and he smells so good, like some sort of cheap shampoo and laundry detergent and _boy_, and she's not sure what sort of mess she's making for herself.

But she certainly doesn't want to back out now.

**tbc**


	3. Chapter 3

a/n: I'm sorry I've been so slow about updates, but here finally is chapter three. Thanks to Quinn (find her fabulous fic via her penname Quibily!) for editing.

* * *

><p>It's still light out when the SUV whips into the Wal-Mart parking lot.<p>

Finn recognises the car, and he steps out of his Explorer, smiling when he sees Rachel wave eagerly at him from the passenger seat window as Santana parks the car a few slots down from Finn. Rachel hops out of the car. "How do I look?" she asks, skipping over to him and twirling around. She's dressed in some sparkly green shirt and a jean skirt, her hair in a pony tail.

"Awesome, babe," he says. "You're gonna blow Mat Kearney away."

Rachel giggles, pleased, and stands up on her tiptoes to kiss him lightly.

"I'm out," Santana calls. "I'll call you if you need to haul ass back here."

"Thanks, Santana!" Rachel replies brightly.

"Yeah, thanks," Finn adds, smiling at her.

From inside her car, Santana nods, eyes unpleasant as she glances at him. She hates him. He knows that. But she's pretty loyal to Rachel. She's kept the secret, and she's helped with dates like this, and she's just really cool, so he can't really complain.

Rachel climbs up into his car as Santana drives away, and Finn lets her put in that CD she made him of the best Broadway ballads. It's over an hour drive to the concert hall, and that's a lot of Broadway ballads, but he'll let Rachel have her way on this. She pretty much always has her way, because it's _impossible_ to say no to her. He doesn't think anyone ever has.

"Are you excited?" she asks. "I'm excited. I'm _so_ excited. I've never been to a concert before!"

"That's kinda crazy," Finn tells her. He still can't really believe that. "You live in New York, you've seen a thousand Broadway plays, and you've _never_ been to a concert."

"Noah and Santana go to them sometimes, but usually as a couple, and it's always awkward to be a third wheel with them. They don't understand the concept of inappropriate public displays of affection. And I _did_ go to a Wiggles concert with Jesse —"

"But that doesn't count," Finn says. "This is your first _real_ concert." He kind of likes that he's the person to take her to her first concert, okay? Plus, that makes this a totally awesome one month anniversary date, even if Rachel doesn't like that term, because an anniversary is a year, or whatever. They've been together for a month now, and he's about to take her to her first concert.

She smiles at him, breaking out into song a moment later.

He merges onto the highway and then risks a glance from the road to watch her for a minute, her head tilted back, her eyes bright. She's always so happy, more so than anybody he knows. It's kind of infectious. He knows she's never really wanted for anything, but she's not a brat.

She's just, like, _spirited_, or something. And, yeah, that sounds totally lame, but it's like nothing can bring her down, and anything is possible, and she'll make the most of her life and you better not say otherwise, thank you very much. He loves it.

They may have only dated for a month, but it's been really awesome so far.

She's let him try to teach her how to play basketball, and he's watched _Funny Girl_ with her on his laptop in an empty batting cage, and they've seen three different shows at these random little theatres that she knows all about. He's taken her for ice cream after school a couple of times, or to see a movie, or to the arcades once, when he learned she'd never been. He'll never forget the sight of Rachel Berry bouncing on the balls of her feet and shouting "_die_!" at a pinball machine. It's been an awesome month, 'cause _she_'s awesome.

It's easy to pretend she isn't who she is.

Or, like, that her dad isn't who he is. They never really talk about their families at all.

They talk about movies and music, they talk about Broadway and baseball, they talk about school and his friends and her friends, but they _don't_ talk about family. It'd be too weird. He knows her parents are divorced, and she told him once that she doesn't really need to know her mom, because her dad and his boyfriend, her papa, are all the parents she needs. He kinda just nodded. It's strange that her dad is this big mob boss and he has a _boyfriend_. But, like, it doesn't really matter, does it?

"How late do you think the concert will go?" she asks.

"I don't know. It's at nine, so it'll probably be over around midnight. That's not too late, right?"

"Oh, no, definitely not," she assures. "Santana said I could call her to meet up back at Wal-Mart anytime! She's gone out to a few dance clubs, but she has her phone on her. I think it's crazy for her to go out by herself, but she really likes that, and it works perfectly for us, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," he says, nodding. Like he said, Santana is cool. It'd be nice if she didn't hate his guts.

"I did some research on Mat Kearney," she tells him. "He's from Oregon. Isn't that fun? I've never been to the West Coast before."

"Me neither," he says. "I've never really been anywhere."

She nods. "As much as I love New York, I can't wait to explore the world. I even wrote a list of all the cities I want to perform in — I'll show it to you sometime! Noah says that New York is the best city in the world, but I'd like to see that for myself. Of course, he's never been anywhere either. We did go to Detroit once, and that was a lot of fun. . . ."

They don't usually talk about Noah anymore than they do their dads.

She brings him up a lot, 'cause he is her cousin and pretty much one of her best friends, but she seems to know that Finn isn't his biggest fan. He hasn't told her about what happened with her beloved cousin, but he knows it's gonna be a problem eventually. Her cousin is an ass, even if she thinks he's the best thing since sliced bread.

"And California, too," she tells him. "I want to see the Golden Coast." She smiles.

"Yeah," he agrees. "I've thought after school I might just take my car and go, you know?"

She smiles, taking his hand. "It'd be an adventure."

He parks in a garage a few blocks from the concert and takes her to dinner at this place that looks like something out of a sitcom, and then they're on their way to their concert, and he kinda loves how they can walk down the street like totally normal people, her hand in his as she chatters about all her research on Mat Kearney. It's kind of cool to sneak around, but it also sort of completely sucks that they can't even look at each other in school or let anyone they know see them near each other.

But people here don't know who Finn is, or who Rachel is, or that they shouldn't be together.

The place is packed when they arrive, but Finn kind of likes how that keeps Rachel so close to him, pressed to his side. When the opening act finally ends and Mat Kearney comes out on stage, she jumps up and down so enthusiastically she nearly takes his eye out with her elbow. She knows the words to every song, and she claps and sings and dances, and he claps and sings and dances right alongside her.

_"She don't know what she wants to be,"_ Rachel sings, grinning at Finn.

_"With all the pictures in the magazines. / Holding hands when she's mad at me / 'Cause she don't wanna go, don't wanna go. / I met her at anthropology, / Purple boots and her golden dreams, / Standing there like a Tennessee queen, / Singing don't look at me, don't look at me. . . ."_

_"Singing oh, oh, won't you help me sing this song?" _he sings to her, and he takes her hand and spins her around, nearly knocking her into the row in front of them, but she only giggles as she hugs him, and presses her face into his arm, her eyes still so bright and happy.

_"Singing ee ee ee, / She don't ever want to go to sleep. / Singing hey mama, don't want no drama, / Just a kiss before I leave. / Hey lady, don't say maybe, / You're the one that I can believe."_

She rests her hands on his shoulders, and his own hands land automatically on her waist.

_"I can see it in her Cherokee eyes, / Those baby browns and the golden thighs. / What you doing for the rest of your life?, / 'Cause you don't want, don't wanna go."_

He holds her gaze and sings to her, pulling her a little closer.

_"Couldn't be more opposite, / I'm hard to please and you're hard to get, / You're Mississippi and I'm Oregon, / You're sun tanned and I'm porcelain skinned."_

It's the same song that's stuck in their head hours later as they make their way back to the parking garage. Rachel nearly dances down the street, belting out all the words.

_"Singing hey mama, don't want no drama, / Just a kiss before I leave. / Hey lady, don't say maybe, / You're the one that I can believe. / Hey lover, don't want no other / finger for my ring. / Hey mama, hey hey mama. . . ."_

She sings as they start the drive back, too, and she startles the man at the gas station with a rendition of "Chasing the Light" when Finn and Rachel stop in to pick up drinks. A few minutes later, sitting on the hood of his car with, slushees in hand, she sighs happily, leaning against him.

"That concert was _amazing_," she tells him.

"It was pretty awesome," he agrees.

She tilts her head to rest her chin on his shoulder. "I wish I could tell everybody."

"About the concert? You could tell people you went with Santana, and then just fill her in on it."

"No," she replies, "I mean about us."

He glances at her, and she shifts to sit up properly, still pressed close to him, with her arm on his shoulder now, her face so close to his that he can see the stain of purple slushee on her lips even with only the gas station parking lot lights to illuminate her.

"It seems so silly, this secret, doesn't it?" she asks.

He sets his drink down on the car beside him. "You say the word, and I'll tell everybody that Rachel Berry is my girlfriend." He will. He wants to tell Sam and Mike about her, wants to walk down the halls of school with her, wants to take her by his house and show her his drums.

And his dad might be pissed, but —

"I don't think that'd be such a good idea until everything is settled between our dads," she says, sighing a little and taking another sip of her drink. He watches her for a minute.

"It'll never really be settled between them," he says, aware of the thin line he walks.

"I . . . I've thought that maybe after everything with Matt is put to rest, after justice is served and your dad doesn't feel the need to pin that crime on my family, maybe then if we told them we were together, we could help them see that they don't have a reason to fight each other, even if —"

She doesn't finish, but he knows what goes unsaid.

The problem is that his dad will still be a police chief, and hers will still be a mob boss.

"But nobody needs to know about us for me to be your girlfriend, right?"

He smiles a little. "Right," he says, and he tucks a little of her loose hair behind her ear. She glances at him and then away shyly like she seems to do so often.

"You've never called me your girlfriend before, you know."

"You're my girlfriend," he says, leaning down towards her.

"And you're my boyfriend," she whispers, and her eyelashes brush his cheek.

He kisses her, and he tries to kiss away everything else, to kiss away thoughts of their dads, of their families, of expectations and secrets and murders, and she moves slightly, following him as he turns to lie on his back, and he can't possibly care less about the windshield wiper that digs into his lower back as Rachel straddles his hip and kisses him, her hands in his hair, her lips cold and sticky and as eager to kiss away the rest of the world as he is.

Her skin burns his hand as he grips her thighs, and then his fingers catch on the sequins of her top as he lets his hands slide up, and abruptly she jumps when he brushes against the underside of her breasts, and she sends his slushee flying as she snaps up like a spring board. They stare at each other, startled.

"I'm —" he starts, propping himself up on his elbows, unsure what to say.

And she starts to laugh suddenly, tilting forward and burying her face in her hands.

"Look at us," she gasps, "in a gas station parking lot."

He touches a hand to her back. "Come on," he says, catching her gaze to smile at her. "You can call Santana in the car." They both slide off the hood, and she smoothes out her hair and her skirt as he collects his slushee cup and throws it out with hers. He turns back to her and can't help another smile as he sees her lips, a little too pink, a little too kissed.

It's not until they're back in the car that she says something.

"I've never . . . the only boy I've ever even dated is Jesse," she says, "and we never went very far."

He pauses with his hand on the radio dial and meets her gaze. "I've never been that far, either," he admits. "I don't really know — I'm not very good at, like — I just . . . I don't know how to — how to act around you sometimes." He sounds like an idiot.

She leans forward and kisses him sweetly over the console. "Act like you," she says, "and I'll act like me, and I think that'll work." He smiles against her lips, kisses her again quickly, and then flips the radio on and puts the car in reverse.

Santana looks bored when Finn pulls into the Wal-Mart parking lot, but she smiles a little when Rachel rushes to her and immediately starts to gush about the concert. That small smile fades, though, when Rachel turns back around to give Finn a kiss goodbye, but Finn doesn't care.

She'll get over it.

His dad is asleep in front of the television downstairs when Finn tiptoes into the house, and he finds his mom asleep in front of the television upstairs. He turns her television off and pulls the blanket up over her, kissing her forehead, and he finds some aspirin in the bathroom and leaves that by her bed with a bottle of water.

She must take the aspirin at some point, 'cause she's pretty chipper when he wakes up the next morning. "You want waffles or pancakes?" she asks brightly as he lumbers into the kitchen.

He shrugs. "As long as —"

"I put chocolate chips in the mix," she finishes for him, "you don't care. I know." She smiles, and he pulls the orange juice out of the fridge. "And how was your night?" she asks him. "You were out with your friends, weren't you?"

"Um, yeah," he says, "just, like, hanging out and stuff."

She nods, and it's quiet for a few minutes as he flips through the Sunday comics.

But soon enough she sets two plates of chocolate chip pancakes on the table, and he tosses the paper aside and moves to sit at the table with her. They don't do this that much, but it doesn't totally suck when they do.

"Okay," his mom says, "out with it. What's new in your life?"

"I don't know. Nothing."

"I love when you open up to me like this."

"I know." He folds a pancake, she smacks his hand, and he makes a show of slowly cutting the pancake up and eating with his fork. She applauds. "I went to a concert last night."

"Oh, that's fun. Who'd you see?"

He tells about the show, but it seems so weird to lie completely and say he went with some random friends from school rather than with this amazing girl. And, honestly, he thinks maybe if he told his mom the truth, she wouldn't care. She would keep his secret, even, and encourage him.

It's easier this way, though.

"Before I forget," she says, "you need to stop by the station today. Your dad wants your help with something." She must understand his expression, because she sighs and reaches forward to cover his hand with hers. "You want me to call to say you feel a little under the weather?"

He glances at her. She offers to do that for him a lot, and he knows that's her personal style, lying.

"No, it's cool," he says. "I can stop by." He stands and carries his plate to the counter.

"Sweetheart," she says, stopping him before he can leave the kitchen. "Your father loves his life as a police, and he wants you to be that happy, too. But your life isn't his, and I don't want you ever to forget that, okay? You need to do what makes _you_ happy."

He nods. "I know. Thanks for breakfast, Ma."

"Anytime, hon."

He texts Rachel to ask her if she maybe wants to hang out that night, and then he drives down to the station. It's almost already noon, and the place looks pretty empty. It is Sunday. He waves at Sally, the front desk lady who always works the worst hours, and starts towards his dad's office, only to see his father and a circle of detectives, all gathered around a tiny television.

Finn hangs back at first, but his dad calls him forward a moment later, the instant he spots him.

"You're here! Good. Get on over here. Come see this, kid. Take a look at _this_!"

His mouth goes dry when he sees the screen. He stares in kind of disbelief at her tiny little picture on the screen, at _Rachel_, standing pin straight in her seat, hair falling into her face, hands tightly clasped in her lap. What the fuck is this? He recognises that room, a small, gray room with a battered table and two worn desk chairs. It's an interrogation room just down the hall.

Why the _fuck_ is Rachel on camera in an interrogation room?

He looks at his dad for some sort of explanation.

"Oh, don't worry, kid," his dad tells him, "Brady and Nick only just brought her in. You haven't missed anything good. And she looks a little ticked off, don't she, boys?" He laughs. "Crank up the volume, Marty. Let's here what she's got to say, how about that?"

Finn almost cringes when her voice, hard and strained, pours out of the television screen.

"— completely illegal! You have no right to keep me here, not without my lawyer. I don't know why you've brought me here, since you refuse to _tell_ me, but I refuse to let this conversation go any further without my lawyer present. His name is Leroy Matthews. If you'd like to call him instead of me, you may. But I won't talk without him here."

Finn swallows thickly, his heart pounding, and simply watches as Lt. Jacobs laughs at her.

"I don't think so," Jacobs replies.

"You have to let me have a lawyer," Rachel protests. "I've seen _Law and Order_! Or, well, I've seen most of an episode. I'd say a solid — a solid _two-thirds_ of the episode, and I know how this process works. I have the right to demand a lawyer!"

"This ain't _Law and Order_, Ms. Berry," Jacobs says, leaning back in his seat. "Nobody said you were in any trouble. I don't want to interrogate you." He smiles. "I only want to talk. And we can start as soon as you tell me why you think I've brought you in here today."

Rachel crosses her arms over her chest, mouth a thin line, and Finn can't watch any more of this.

"Dad," he murmurs, "what . . . ?"

"That's the Berry girl," his dad says, eyes still on the screen. "Hiram's precious little angel."

"Yeah," Finn says, "but why is she here? Dad?"

"We needed a new lead, didn't we? It's been a fucking month, and I'll be damned if I let another murder slip through my fingers. And if she don't know a thing, at least I can make Hiram piss himself mad about his baby, eh?" He laughs with Major McCraty, and Finn feels sick.

He watches her tiny screen on the television and tries to think of a way to stop this.

* * *

><p>She tries not to look at the camera, set in the ceiling corner above the door, but she almost can't <em>not<em>.

If her daddy had been at the house, he never would have allowed this. This officer has no right to do this. He doesn't. But her papa will make sure everybody knows that, just as soon as Mrs. Proctor calls him. She'll call him, and he'll come pick her up, and everything will be okay.

It _will_.

She stares at the officer, a short, stocky man with thinning black hair, who actually came by her _house_, told Mrs. Proctor to step aside or she'd find herself at the station alongside Rachel, and then forced Rachel to come here, made her sit on a suspiciously stained chair, and laughed in her face as she demanded a lawyer, her legal right as a citizen of the United States.

This isn't right, it isn't. And she hasn't even done anything wrong to be here!

She's never hurt anyone, not once in her life; she's never broken any rules at all, in fact. She did speed to ballet last week, but she was _very_ late, and she only went seven miles over the speed limit. Santana swore to Rachel that she wouldn't be in any trouble for that. But this can't be about that.

"I have no idea why I've been brought in here," she tells him. "And I don't think you have any idea either, because I've done nothing wrong, and if you don't have a reason to arrest me, then you can't keep me here. You can't."

The officer only smiles at her, and it's the wrong kind of smile.

"Rachel — can I call you Rachel?"

"No," she snaps. "Ms. Berry will do fine, thank you. And you haven't told me your name."

He chuckles again. "It's Lieutenant Jacobs," he says. "And I'm here to talk to you. That's all I want to do. So the sooner we talk, the sooner you can leave."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "I don't have anything to talk about you," she tells him. "And even if I did, as I already made clear, I won't talk without my lawyer present."

"Did your father ask you to murder Matthew Rutherford?"

She gasps. "No!" she exclaims, sputtering in indignation. This can't possibly be real life.

It's Christopher Hudson, isn't it? He's behind all of this. He's bullying her. But what about Finn? Can he help her? No, he can't, because he must have no idea about this. He's probably still asleep in bed, happy with dreams of the amazing time they had last night, as she should be right now.

"Okay, then he asked Noah Puckerman to do the job, is that right?"

"He would never ask Noah to do that," Rachel insists angrily, and she almost wants to cry as Jacobs only stares at her in mild amusement. Is this really why this man brought her in? Do the police really think she or Noah had anything to do with what happened to Matt?

"He would never ask Noah to do that," she repeats, "and Noah would never do it."

"Let's not lie, Rachel," Jacobs says, condescension dripping from his voice. "Your father is a mob boss, your cousin is a soldier under him, and murder is what they do." His expression is blacker now, his words short and cold. "So tell me straight: when did your father ask Noah Puckerman to kill Matthew Rutherford?" He stares at her across the table.

She takes a few shuddering breaths as she glares back at him.

"It's Ms. Berry," she tells him, "and my father is a _businessman_."

His face breaks suddenly into more laughter, and she goes on furiously, her voice rising.

"And just because your boss has a known vendetta against him, that doesn't mean you have the right to accuse him of anything _close_ to murder!" Her eyes flicker up to the camera. "He is _not_ a mob boss, and Noah is _not_ a solider. And, _furthermore_, even if anything you said were true, which it's _not_, my father loves Noah like a son, and he would never put Noah at risk like that. Every accusation you hurl is completely and utterly unfounded — and I won't say another word until my lawyer arrives!"

It's quiet, and Rachel tears her eyes away from the camera to look back at Lieutenant Jacobs.

He seems to school his features to match that casual air he first addressed her with, an awful kind of smirk curling up the ends of his mouth. "Your father loves Noah like a son, you say?" he asks, leaning back in his chair again. "I'll believe that. It's his sister's son. Why wouldn't he? But, well, tell me, _Ms. Berry_ — what happened to his _actual_ father?"

"He died," Rachel replies. That's certainly not a secret.

"He died," Jacobs repeats.

"Yes, that's what I said," she snaps. "My uncle, Sam Puckerman, died a few years ago."

"And how'd he die, might I ask?"

"He died in a car accident."

He starts to laugh yet again, and Rachel clenches her teeth when the overwhelming urge to cry rises up in her. "That's what they tell you?" Jacobs says, acting more than a little amused now. "That he died in a car accident. And you believe that? Okay, then. Okay." He runs a hand through his hair and smiles that off-putting smile at her again. "So, did your mom die in a car accident, too?"

"If you must know," she replies, curling her hands into fists, "my mother left when I was a baby."

"She left," he echoes. "Did she end up like this?" He slides the folder across the table.

Her hand shakes a little as she reaches forward, but she refuses to look at him to see his reaction. And then all the breath leaves her when she sees the picture of Matt, dead, his head bloody from bullets. She slams the folder shut and crosses her arms tightly over her chest once more.

Why would he show her this? Aren't police officers supposed to _help_ people?

She thinks of everything her father has ever said about Christopher Hudson, all the times something bad would happen and he would tell her that terrible Chris Hudson could be blamed. This is Christopher Hudson. She knows that. She glances up at the camera.

He must be on the other end.

After a month with Finn, she had started to believe that maybe her father wasn't entirely right about Christopher Hudson, that maybe he was something of a hardass but wasn't really a villain, because how could the father of someone as wonderful as her boyfriend be so terrible? But he is, isn't he?

She tears her eyes from the camera and looks back at Jacobs.

"Ms. Berry?" he asks, raising his eyebrows, his lips twisting in that same sickening smirk.

"I want my lawyer."

"You know," Jacobs says, clearing his throat and sprawling back in his seat again. "If you help me, I might be able to assure that the charges against your cousin aren't _too_ harsh. He'll be in prison for years, that's for sure, but we could probably save him from the death penalty."

She stares at him. "I want my lawyer."

"You dated Rutherford, didn't you? I bet your daddy didn't like that, did he?"

She says nothing.

"And let's talk about Jesse St. James. How long, exactly, did he spend in the hospital?"

"I. Want. My. Lawyer."

"According to the papers, he had a car accident. But the doctor my buddy Roy spoke to said that it looked like somebody took a baseball bat to the poor kid. Tell me, Rachel, does your cousin own a baseball bat? I bet he does, don't he?"

He won't let up. He talks more about Jesse, and he talks about what could happen to Noah, no longer a minor. He talks about the mob again, and then he says maybe she wants Noah to go to prison so that he'll be able to escape her father. He starts to yell at one point, and his spit hits her face, and when he forces her to look at picture of Matt again, she starts to cry.

But she still says nothing. She will not give Christopher Hudson any wind to fan his fire.

And then somebody abruptly knocks on the door.

She jumps to her feet, and the officer slowly pushes himself to his, and he lumbers over to the door. Her breath catches when she sees Finn, his face stony. He murmurs something to Jacobs, who glances at her and then nods, and he leaves. Finn turns to her.

"It's Rachel, right?" he says.

She wants to tackle him. He gives the most amazing hugs, and she wants to hug him so tightly she can't breathe, wants to bury herself in his arms. He's here to help her, isn't he? Right? But she can't tackle him, or hug him, or press her face into his sweater and feel his heart beat against her cheek, and she doesn't know what to do. She manages to nod.

"That's right. And you're Finn."

He sits down across from her. She sits down, too.

"I, um, took English with Matt. He was a pretty cool guy."

"I know," she says, desperate to try to understand what this is about.

"Look," he tells her, "I don't think you killed him. I know you didn't, actually. But somebody did, and if we don't find a lead soon, that killer will walk free." He licks his lips, a nervous tick, she knows. "You don't want that, right? I mean, you did know Matt, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did," she says. "I did. And I'm as upset as everyone else at his murder. But I — I have no idea what happened. I don't. I wish I could help you, but I can't, I swear."

He nods, glancing at the camera. "Can you tell me about the dance?" he asks. "You remember the Halloween dance, right? That's the same night he died. Can you tell me what you did that night?"

"I — I came with my friend Santana. We did our hair and make-up together beforehand at her house, and then we arrived at the dance a little after eight, and we both talked with some boys and had fun, and then she left with a boy, and my friend David gave me a ride home at midnight."

Is that what he wants her to say?

"Okay. And, um, your cousin? Noah Puckerman? That night what did he . . . ?"

"He didn't come to the dance," she says. "He spent the night at his house, in a Halo competition with some college kids who go to our Temple. Ask them."

"Okay, um, well —"

There's another knock on the door.

Finn looks as relieved as she feels, and he nearly knocks his chair over as he goes to open the door. She watches again as he murmurs with another police officer, and then he looks at her, and she smiles even before he says the words.

"You can go now," he says. "Thanks for, um, talking with me."

He stands back to let her pass him as she leaves, and his hand brushes her arm.

Her daddy stands a few feet down the hall, Mr. Tanaka with him, and she's never been so happy to see them both. Rachel flies straight at her father, and he has his arms around her in an instant. She feels tears burn her eyes, and he only holds her a little tighter and kisses the top of her head.

"You're alright, Princess," he murmurs, speaking too softly for anyone but her to hear.

She pulls back, ready to tell him everything, only for her eyes to land on Finn.

He stands by his father, and she doesn't know what to make of anything. He stares at her, and she slips her hand in her pocket, her fingers curling around her phone. They'll talk soon. He'll explain everything; he has to. He _has_ to.

"Come on," her daddy says, his hand around her back. "You're free to leave, Princess. Come on." He walks her out of the station, ignoring both Hudsons as they pass them by, and then they're out of the station, and he ushers her a block down the street to his Benz, parallel parked with Mr. Ryerson in the front seat.

Mr. Tanaka opens the door for them, and her daddy helps her into the car, following her in.

She cuddles into his arms the moment the door shuts behind them.

"It's okay, Princess," he whispers. "It's okay. You're okay."

She nods against his side.

"But what happened?" he asks. "Mrs. Proctor called me and your papa both, and I could barley make out what she said through her tears. What did the police want?"

She tells him everything, from start to finish.

She doesn't know what to say about Finn, but she tries to paint as good a picture of him as she can. His expression grows darker as she talks, but the moment she finishes he pulls her into another hug, and she takes a deep breath of his familiar cologne.

"I want you to listen to me, sweet girl," he says quietly. "There are people in this world who want power so much that they'll hurt anyone who stands in the way. I've stood in the way of Christopher Hudson for years, refusing to let him use my money for corrupt activities, and he took Noah first and now you under the pretence of suspects simply to rattle me. I'm sorry for that."

She shakes her head. "It's not your fault."

"I know. But you need to know that I won't let Hudson near you again. Your papa is just down the street, filing a complaint, and as soon as he's finished, we'll all go home, and we'll pretend this day never happened. How does that sound?" He smiles.

"That sounds perfect," she whispers.

He kisses the top of her head again, and he asks Mr. Ryerson to put on a CD for her.

She smiles a little as he asks her to sing for him, and she does, trying to pour herself into the song, and the music does make her feel better, like always. She can always count on music. It doesn't take Papa much longer, and then she ends up sandwiched between her dads in the back seat, and she feels so safe like that.

This ordeal is over_. _Right?

Her phone goes off halfway through the ride, buzzing against her thigh, but she doesn't answer, doesn't even acknowledge the call, because she doesn't want questions from her dads, not if it's who she hopes it is calling.

Her aunt Julia greets her at the house with a hug, and she kisses Rachel repeatedly on the face and calls her sweet affectionate Hebrew names over and over again, before she starts to make a banana split for Rachel. "You forget all about those terrible men, darling," she says.

Becca is there, too, and she wraps her tiny seven-year-old arms around Rachel, telling Rachel that she can have her maraschino cherry for their sundaes, because she knows how much Rachel loves maraschino cherries. Rachel kisses her and thanks her. She adores her little cousin, a miniature of her mother; with the occasional swear word hidden behind her sweet face, courtesy of her older brother.

"You listen to your aunt," her daddy says, "and you forget this."

He smiles at her, and he and her papa sit with her as they all eat ice cream. She lets the older woman fawn over her, and she lets Becca sing a song to make her feel better, and then her dads offer to take her to see a show tonight. They're all so good to her. But she still feels so shaken, and more than anything she needs to talk to Finn. She _needs_ an explanation from him, and she needs to hear his voice, and she needs — she needs to talk to him.

Finally, she tells them she wants to take a nap.

She escapes up to her room, and she pulls out her phone the moment she shuts the door.

Her missed call is from Finn, just like she hoped.

He picks up after two rings. "Rachel? Are you okay?" He sounds worried.

"I'm fine, I think," she tells him, sinking down on to her bed. "I can't believe that even happened, but — but what _did_ happen?"

"I'm sorry, baby, I'm so sorry," he tells her, the words pouring out of him desperately.

He's never called her that before.

"I didn't — I showed up at the station," he goes on quickly, "because my mom said my dad wanted to talk to me, and then I saw you on the interrogation camera, and I freaked, but I didn't know what to do. I finally told my dad, though, I told him that maybe I should talk to you to try to see if I could, like, use that we were both teenagers to make you talk. But I just — I couldn't just watch Jacobs treat you like that, and I wanted to help you —"

"I know," she interrupts, and she clutches the phone tightly. "You did. I felt so much better with you across the table." It's quiet for a moment, and she really wants to see him. She lies back on her bed, cradling her stuffed monkey to her chest. "But why did they even want to talk to me? Your dad, did he —?"

"He's an ass, Rachel. He's an ass. I don't even know. He wanted to mess with your dad, 'cause he's pissed that he doesn't know who killed Matt. I'm so sorry."

And she smiles to herself despite everything, because he still sounds so upset, and somehow that makes her feel better. He's not like his father. He's so much better.

"It's okay," she tells him. "I'm okay. I —" She freezes when the door starts to open, and then Noah peaks his head in, and he smiles at her. She smiles back at him, nodding at him to come in. "I'll tell you more when I see you, Santana," she says. "Noah's here."

"Oh, um, yeah, okay. You wanna meet up tonight? At, like, six, maybe?"

"That sounds good, San. I'll text you."

Noah envelops her in a hug the moment she hangs up the phone. "I came as soon as Ma called me. I'm sorry, Rach. I can't believe those fuckers messed with you. You okay?"

"I'm fine, I promise," she assures. "Daddy says Christopher Hudson only wanted to try to annoy him, and that he used me for that end."

"Yeah, I talked to him a couple minutes ago. He said Hudson's kid talked to you, too. Finny D." He spits the name, and Rachel's defenses fly up — if only Noah _knew_!

"He came in to replace this absolutely _inhumane_ officer. And he was actually quite polite. He's — he's really not so bad, Noah. He's not like his father." She speaks cautiously, but she can't not defend Finn, she just can't.

"That's what they want you to think," Noah tells her. "It's called good cop, bad cop. They're messing with you, Rach. No matter what, you've gotta know that the Hudsons are _bastards_, Rach. All of 'em, even the kid."

"I don't — I don't think that's true, Noah. I think Finn is a good person."

Noah stares at her for a moment, and then he turns away, runs a hand over his mohawk and nods. "Okay. I want to show you something. C'mere." He leads her down the stairs and into the living room, and he picks a picture up off the bookshelf. "You know who that is?"

She takes the picture from him. "Of course I do," she says. "That's my dad, your mom, and our uncle Luke, when they were kids. And that's Grams in the background."

"Yeah," Noah says. "And you know what happened to Uncle Luke, right?"

"He died in a car accident when we were little," Rachel says, but Noah shakes his head.

"He didn't, Rach. That's what your dad and my mom told us, but it's not true. It was a lie to soften the blow, 'cause we were little kids, and they didn't think we'd really understand. And you know how your dad likes to protect you. You wanna know what really happened? I found out a few years back, just by accident, when Uncle Hiram let it slip."

She sits down on the sofa, the pictures still in her lap. "Okay," she says. "What happened?"

Noah sits down beside her. "He was arrested by this new cop, Chris Hudson. He hadn't done anything wrong, not really, but you know how cops are, 'specially cops like Hudson. Corrupt, ready to do anything to make himself look good. That's when Uncle Hiram hired Uncle Leroy, right out of law school, to defend Uncle Luke."

Rachel nods. She knows how her dads met, or at least that they met when Uncle Hiram hired him for help.

"And Uncle Leroy, 'cause he's a badass, totally proved that Hudson is an ass, and he got Uncle Luke off, completely free. But Hudson didn't like that. He was pissed. And he and his buddies took baseball bats, and they beat the shit out of Uncle Luke." He pauses. "They beat him to _death_, Rachel. And then they covered their tracks, and they set everything to look like gang violence."

"But. . . ." Rachel shakes her head.

"It's the truth, Rach," Noah says. "Your dad was so pissed, so was my mom. And they tried so hard to prove that Chris Hudson was really to blame, like Uncle Luke told 'em he was at the hospital, right before he went into surgery he didn't come out of, but nobody believed them. Hudson _murdered_ Uncle Luke, and nothing happened to him."

"That's terrible, Noah, it is, and I'm completely _shocked _and — and appalled, really, and I can't believe nobody ever told me this, told me the truth, but I — but this just proves that Chris Hudson is a terrible person. It doesn't make his son the same way."

"You think the kid raised by a guy like that is gonna be a saint?" Noah asks, raising his eyebrows. "He acts all dumb and sweet, Rachel, but he's not. Okay. He's not." He stares at her so hard, as if trying to _make_ her understand by the look in his eyes, and she glances down at her lap. He sighs.

"You wanna know about his mom?" he asks. "She's an alcoholic, Rach. And she sleeps around. I overheard Uncle Leroy saying that she's sleeping with Burt Hummel. You know who that is? That's Anna Hummel's husband. _Anna Hummel_. You know how messed up that is? And it's probably all a big political play that they're all mixed up in."

She gapes at Noah. Finn's mother is sleeping with Kurt's father? Does Kurt know that? Does Finn? She can't take this. She's taken by police in the morning, bullied by a terrible officer, only to be secretly rescued by her boyfriend, whose entire family is corrupt and sick, as her cousin says he is, too. This is just _too much_.

"I — I think I need to take a nap, Noah," she says. "I'm tired."

"Yeah," he says, "yeah, okay. I'm sorry to . . . I don't wanna make this day worse for you. I just want you to — to be careful. Don't trust Finn Hudson so easily, okay?"

"Okay," she says, standing and offering him a small smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He nods, and she starts to leave to head back upstairs to her room. Before she reaches the door, though, he calls out to her.

"Hey, when I talked to your dad, he said you stuck up for me. That when the police asked you if I had murdered Matt, you told them to go fuck themselves."

"I said something to the effect, yes," she says, "although in a much less crude way."

He grins, and she shakes her head at him, still smiling to herself as she starts back up the stairs. She tries to process everything she said, and she can't really believe it. She's always believed without a doubt that her uncle died in a car accident. But now Noah tells her, with complete sincerity, that Christopher Hudson beat him to death with a baseball bat?

How can that possibly be true?

And she should talk to Kurt, too. But what would she say?

Lying back on her bed, she scrolls through her contacts until she finds _James Brolin_, and she smiles as she texts Finn to meet her out at the drive-in at six, before she calls Santana to give her a ride.

She doesn't know how that conversation with Kurt will go, and she doesn't know what to think about everything Noah told her, but she still knows with certainty that Noah's wrong on one count: Finn isn't his father, or his mother.

He's his own person. He's Finn, simply Finn, with adorable dimples, a beautiful voice, and a kind of innocent courage. He's the boy who kisses her so sweetly at the end of their dates, who holds her hand so proudly whenever he can, who talks so sincerely about how much he loves music. He's _Finn_.

And she trusts him.

* * *

><p>She hugs him from behind.<p>

His hands are shoved in his pockets as he waits by his car at the Target down the street from the drive-in that's just outside of town, and suddenly little arms sneak around his middle and her face presses against his back. He smiles, relieved before he even realizes he was worried. He turns around and she leans up to kiss him quickly.

Santana catches his eye, nods, and slams on her gas pedal, leaving.

"How are you?" he asks Rachel, and then he flinches a little at his own words, because how can she be okay after what went down today?

But she smiles. "I'm fine," she assures. "Really. I'm just — I'm just really happy that you're not anything like your dad."

"I'm not," he says. "And, look, my dad is on a vendetta, but I'm not gonna let him mess with you, okay? Just, no matter what happens, remember that, okay?"

"I will. It's obvious that your dad simply wants to pin the murder on somebody, right? And my family is the best choice, because he —" she hesitates, "— he doesn't like my dad very much. But my dad is innocent, and so is my cousin, and your dad will have to admit that soon. He can't grasp at straws forever, and then this will be over."

He nods. He can't believe how she can be so sure and happy and confident again so quickly, but he's glad she is, even if he isn't so sure she's right. He kisses her again, and then holds the car door open for her. "You're still my boyfriend," she tells him.

"Yeah," he says. "And you're still my girlfriend."

This is her favourite drive-in, with the black and white movies, and she watches _His Girl Friday_ with wide, delighted eyes, then she seems just as eager to watch _Streetcar Named Desire_ afterward. She can't make it through two movies, though, and he sort of likes how she falls asleep against him.

She might be right. His entire life, his dad has told him shit about the Berrys. And maybe Mr. Berry really is an asshole, 'cause Noah certainly is, but if they didn't have anything to do with the murder, then his dad has to admit that eventually, right? He and Rachel can make this work.

They _will_ make this work, and he definitely won't let his dad mess with her again.

She's so sleepy that he calls Santana for her, and the other girl only watches sourly as Finn carries Rachel over to her SUV and then helps her into the front seat. "She's been through a lot today," Santana tells him as he shuts the door and turns back towards his car.

"I know," he says. "She seems okay, though."

"Yeah. She bounces back fast."

"I guess so."

"She won't always," Santana says, and he doesn't know if that's a warning or an accusation.

He's too tired to care. He spent all afternoon freaked out over what had happened that morning, and it's already past midnight now. He just nods, Santana seems to accept that, and they both head home. His house seems exactly the same as it did the night before: the television plays in the living room, and he expects he'll find his dad passed out in front of it.

But when he starts up the stairs to check on his mom, his dad calls out to him.

Damn.

He hates when his dad is still awake.

He turns slightly and shuffles back down the stairs and across the hall. His dad sees him and then relaxes back in his chair. "Take a seat, kid," he says, nodding at the couch and taking a swig of scotch, and Finn reluctantly sits down. "Where've you been?"

"Out," Finn says. "With my friends. Just, like, out."

"You out all afternoon? Could've used you at the station."

"I figured I wasn't that much help, so I'd just get out of your way," Finn says.

And maybe his dad could let him _stay_ out of the way — and leave Rachel alone, too. Or was that too much to hope for? He watches his dad toss back the rest of his scotch.

"If I want you out of the way, I'll tell you. Nope, kid, you're in this with me, aren't you! You are." He nods. "And we finally have a new lead, don't we? _Finally_. And that bastard Berry probably started to feel safe, to think he'd make his way scotch free out of this one." His dad chuckles, leaning back in his seat.

"You have a lead?" Finn asks.

"Sure do, didn't you see it? The girl, kid. She's it."

"Rachel?" Finn exclaims, shocked. "But she doesn't have anything to do with it! She doesn't even know her dad is part of the mob. She's completely innocent. I mean, didn't you say that yourself? You said you just want to piss her dad off, right?" He sounds a little panicked, he knows, but he _is _panicked.

"Oh, sure, that's what I _thought_, kid," his dad says, thumping his empty glass on the arm of his recliner, "but I _think_ differently now." He grins, thumping the chair once more, and then leans forward. "She knows something, she does. I know it. I _know_ it. She kept her mouth shut, but I've seen enough people sit in that chair to know when someone tries to bullshit me."

"I really don't think. . . ." Finn shakes his head.

"She knows something, kid, and —"

"She doesn't!" Finn insists, and his dad pauses. Finn forces himself to calm down. "Dad, I really don't think she knows anything about what her dad and her family is really like, and she definitely doesn't know about this murder."

His dad puts his glass on the coffee table, and then shifts and leans even further forward in his chair, looking at Finn with flushed cheeks. "You're my son, Finn, and that means you've got good instincts. You'll make for good police. But you have a lot to learn, and you listen to me now. That girl knows something, and you need to find out what."

Finn stares at him.

"Forget about that Puck kid," his dad goes on. "Forget him. Focus on her. Trust your old man, son, and find a way to make that girl talk, you hear me? That's how we'll do this. That's how."

He tries to think of something to say, some excuse to give his dad, some way to make this better.

But he can't think of anything.

**tbc.**


	4. Chapter 4

a/n: As always, I apologise for the long wait. Apparently I can't seem to get my act together with this story! I hope this chapter was worth the wait! And, again, thanks to Quinn, or Quibily, for betaing :)

* * *

><p>It's not that hard to pretend the rest of the world doesn't matter.<p>

He tells Rachel about what his dad asked him to do, because he can't think of anything else to do, and he isn't gonna lose her over this. They go for pizza, and he tells her his dad thinks she might know about what happened to Matt, and he asked Finn to find out what she knows. She chews her weird vegan slice of pizza thoughtfully for a moment and then tells him not to worry.

"I obviously _don't_ know anything," she says, "so there's nothing for you or he to find."

She smiles sweetly, and he nods, 'cause that makes sense. And three days later when his dad asks if he's talked much with Rachel, he says that he has bio with her, and he made conversation, but she kinda blew him off, even as she seemed pretty oblivious to everything with Matt.

"She doesn't know anything, Dad," Finn insists.

His dad only tells him to keep an eye on her.

Technically, he does. They continue to date, and what his dad thinks and what her dad does doesn't so much matter when she giggles and playfully presses her nose to his shoulder, or when she sings _My Heart Will Go On _in the middle of the park for him alone, or when she kisses him, her hands on his shoulders, her lips always so soft against his.

They do have some problems.

Like, Sam and Mike try to set him up on a blind date, and they even tell him to meet them at the Applebees to watch the game, only for him to show up and find himself with a date and neither of his friends anywhere to be seen. "You need to get over Fabray," Sam tells him over the phone.

"I _am_," Finn growls back as he glances over at the girl in the restaurant, his date.

"Sure," Sam says. "And now you're free to go out with Brittany."

Finn hangs up with him, and Brittany isn't so bad, but the moment the date is over, he calls Rachel to tell her everything so that she doesn't have the wrong idea. The whole honesty is best policy seems to work, you know? She sounds freaked at first, but then she starts to laugh a little, and she tells him he has very good friends.

"I can't wait to meet them," she says.

She does that sometimes — says stuff as if their relationship won't be secret for much longer.

He always kind of goes along and doesn't ask any questions, and that works for now. He'll live in the now, and he'll worry about whatever comes next later. That's not so bad, right? And it works for a while, for another three weeks, long enough to lead to the most awesome day of his life.

They see this off-Broadway production of _Beauty of the Beast_, and Finn tells Rachel she'd be an awesome Belle, and she smiles really wide and tells him it's on her list. And then she recites the list of shows for him, probably for the fifth or sixth time. She even puts down her noodle dish so that she can give the list her full attention. "But what about you?" she asks.

"Me?" He glances at her. They're in the front seats of his car, eating food from _Sonic_.

"Yes, you," she says. "If you could see me in any Broadway show, what would it be?"

He shrugs. "I want to see you in everything."

She bites her lip and looks down at her plate, pushing her noodles around. "And will you?" She glances back at him. "Will you come to see all my shows when I'm famous?"

"Yeah," he says. Isn't that kinda obvious? "I'll be in, like, the front row. It'll be awesome. I'll totally brag to everybody around me that I'm your boyfriend. " He smiles at her.

"Or my husband," she says, eyes on his.

He smiles, looking down at his food. She's kinda crazy. They've dated for, what, like almost two months? But he sort of likes the crazy. It's addictive, or whatever. And if they married, his dad would just have to suck it, and Rachel would probably be the coolest wife ever, like telling him to follow his dreams and making him banana bread and reading books on football so she can watch games with him.

"Yeah," he says, and he smiles. He takes a bite of his burger. "People would be like, 'that girl is amazing' and 'I've never heard anybody sing like that,' and I'll be like, 'yeah, she's awesome, and she's my wife. Cool, right?' and they'll all be totally jealous."

He sees her bite her lip hard and grin, and then suddenly she leans over, grasps his shoulder, and tugs him close to kiss him. He totally said the right thing. Her crazy is kinda awesome, see? "Finn," she murmurs, nipping at his bottom lip. "You want to move to the back seat?"

He pulls back enough to look her in the eye, and he grins when he sees the bold, playful gleam in her eye. He nods, and he basically just tosses his hamburger on the dashboard, 'cause who even cares about a stupid burger? He starts to climb to the back, but it doesn't really work, and Rachel laughs as he stumbles out of the car to climb in properly, and then she easily moves from the passenger seat to join him and straddle his hips, and she kisses him as soon as she does.

"I really, _really_ like you," she says, drawing back from the kiss to look at him.

He squeezes her hips affectionately. "Yeah. I really, really like you, too."

And then he just kinda doesn't breathe when she takes his hand, holds his gaze, and slide his hand up her side and then, _holy sweet Jesus fuck_, she puts his hand on her boob. Like, just plops that sucker right down, and his eyes go wide as she smiles and closes her eyes, pressing her lips to his. He can barely even return the kiss, because this is amazing.

Her boobs are amazing, and he's _touching_ them. And he's never touched boobs before, and hers are perfect, fit so perfectly in his hand, and he feels her nipple pebble against his palm, even through the material of her dress, yeah, he feels her nipple, 'cause he's _touching_ _her boob_.

She doesn't stop him when he reaches up with his other hand to cup her other boob. She breathes hotly against the skin of his jaw as she litters kisses across his face, and he squeezes, and her breath catches. He nearly comes in his pants, even as she whispers "breathe" into his ear, and he does, thanks. This is pretty much the most spectacular thing that's ever happened to him.

Actually, he's pretty sure _she_'s the most spectacular thing that's ever happened to him.

Her blinding smile and her amazing voice and her awesome boobs and _her_.

He's so totally marrying her.

But Santana definitely knows how to hit him where it hurts when she calls and interrupts their make-out session moments later, and Rachel has to answer. It turns out Santana needs to bring Rachel back to her house before Noah comes to pick her up, and Finn can't really say no to that.

Rachel holds his right hand captive as he drives, and she kisses him all soft and sweet and shyly when he drops her off at the overpass where Santana waits in her SUV. She turns around before she climbs into the SUV to wave at him, and he waves, too, even if she can't really see him through the dark. He just can't not wave.

The rest of the world doesn't matter so much, see?

But it seems like every time his life is perfect, his dad finds a way to screw all that up.

He has awesome dreams that night, even if he has to change the sheets that morning, and then his mom relays a message from his dad to stop by the station that afternoon. His dad will probably want a report on Rachel. Finn stabs his breakfast and reassures himself that maybe it's nothing. They've managed to avoid the real world for this long, what's a little longer yet?

Of course, that illusion comes tumbling down before he even goes to the station.

It starts right before lunch, when Finn slams his locker shut and turns around to come face to face with Kurt Hummel, who looks at Finn with a guarded, tense expression. He and Kurt aren't really friends, but they're not really _not_ friends, and they have a lot in common, namely their respective favourite parents.

It's not like they talk about that, though, or talk about anything at all.

"Um, hey, dude," Finn greets.

"I need to talk to you," Kurt says.

"Okay," Finn replies, glancing around. "Sure."

Kurt starts down the hallway, and Finn realises that he's supposed to follow. He was gonna meet Mike and Sam for lunch, just like he does every day, but he follows Kurt outside to the picnic tables that litter the school courtyard, and they end up at the table furthest from the school.

"It's about Rachel," Kurt says, looking Finn square in the eye.

"Rachel?" Finn repeats, and he's nervous now.

"Your girlfriend," Kurt says, and then he smiles. "I know, Finn. I know you're together."

He stares at Kurt, unsure what to do. He looks down at the table, runs a hand through his hair, and when Kurt shakes his head, half laughing, Finn tells himself to chill. This isn't that bad, right? But if Kurt knows, then who else might know?

"How?" Finn asks. "How do you know?"

"Rachel and I are friends," Kurt says. He pauses. "Or we're friendly, anyway. We've been in the same theatre circles for years. We're the stars of almost every production this school puts on. She can be a little _much_ at times, but I do respect her vast musical repertoire."

Finn nods. He can't remember if Rachel has ever mentioned Kurt to him before.

"Anyway," Kurt goes on, "Rachel is completely crazy, but when she started to act a different kind of crazy, I was curious. She would skip the extra practices at the community theatre, a first for her, and she would always interrupt rehearsal to answer her phone, something she used to frown upon _severely_, let me tell you. And, oh, God, she would make up the _worst_ excuses when I invited her to do something and she said she couldn't. So I snooped a little."

"You snooped?"

"All innocently, of course," Kurt assures. "But I saw her kiss you in the parking lot."

Damn. That had been an accident, 'cause it's _habit_ to greet each other with a kiss, and it just kinda happened. But they'd both been pretty sure no one saw. He nods at Kurt, though, and Kurt smiles, looking pleased with himself.

"And I put together why you must keep it a secret. With your dad as the chief of police, and her dad as a businessman with a . . . _less than reputable_ standing, it wasn't hard to add up the pieces."

"Yeah," Finn says. "Our dads kinda hate each other."

Kurt nods, and it's awkward for a second before Kurt clears his throat. "Can I ask a question?"

"Um, yeah, but you sound like you pretty much know everything already."

"How long do you plan to keep your relationship a secret?"

Finn shrugs. "I don't know. I kinda hate that it's a secret. I think she does, too. But I think, I mean, we've sorta talked about that maybe when this whole murder blows over, you know, with Matt Rutherford, maybe then we'd tell our dads, and they'd just have to deal, or whatever."

"I see," Kurt says, crossing his legs. "And you really think that's a good idea?"

Finn doesn't really know what to say. Does Kurt have a _better_ idea?

Kurt sighs. "Even if this murder does simply _blow over_, Finn, that won't make things easier for the two of you. Your father will still be the chief of police, and her father will still be a criminal. And maybe Rachel doesn't know how her family really works, doesn't know the things her dad does, but don't tell me that you're oblivious too, Finn."

Finn swallows thickly. "If he's so bad, how come he's never even been in front of a court?"

"Are you serious?" Kurt asks, incredulous. "You're not that stupid. He's a _mob boss_. He's the mastermind behind the crimes, not the goon who's sent to jail. You know that. I know you do. His name is never on paper, but that doesn't make him innocent. You're not that stupid, Finn. Tell me you're not that stupid."

"I'm not," Finn murmurs. He's not stupid, but he's tried to be — what is it Kurt said?

Oblivious. He's tried to be oblivious. Or he's just tried not to think about it all, and, well, it _was_ working pretty fucking well, wasn't it? He sighs. "But Rachel. . . ." He shakes his head.

"Rachel needs out," Kurt says. "She needs _out_, Finn, and as far as I can tell, you're her best shot."

Kurt leans forward. "We're in the same boat, Finn. You and I. It's your dad, and it's my mom, but they're the same. All they really care about are their careers, about how big of a chunk of the city they can control, and they hate anybody who tries to stand in their way. But that doesn't mean the people they hate aren't bad, too. Her dad is. He's the hand behind half the crime in this city, and that's not just my mom or your dad talking. That's the truth."

"I know, okay?" Finn says. "But Rachel isn't a part of all that."

"But she _will_ be, Finn, can't you see that? She _will_ be!"

"What? Like, she'll become a part of the mob? I thought you were friends with her," Finn says.

"I'm not saying that Rachel Berry plans to start in on drug deals and murder conspiracies and prostitution rings," Kurt says. "But that's her family, and her family's business, and she's so naive that she'll end up a part of that business before she knows any better. She'll marry somebody in on the family business, somebody her dad sets her up with, and — and by the time she realises everything, she'll just pretend she doesn't. Or — or else she'll run away but have to leave behind her husband and her kids and her whole _life_. Either way, if she doesn't get out now. . . ."

He looks at Finn meaningfully, but Finn only shakes his head, because he just . . . what's he supposed to say? He doesn't want Rachel to end up trapped, or whatever, but — but —

"What am I supposed to do?" Finn asks. "Tell her that her family that she loves and adores and, like, _worships_ is part of the mob? Kurt, she's not gonna believe me. She thinks her dad's totally innocent, and that he'll be cool with her dating me once Matt's murder is all figured out, because he loves her and she likes me."

"In other words, you just want to pretend that she's right and her dad is nothing but a businessman so that you don't have to admit that your relationship will never work?" Kurt stares at him as if he's an idiot, and Finn can't take this. It's not his fault.

"I don't know!" he exclaims. "Maybe! I don't know. But I like her, Kurt. I really like her, and — and I think — I think I might be, like, really falling for her. And — but why do you care, anyway?" He glares at him. It doesn't have anything to do with Kurt.

"I — because," Kurt says. "She might not be my _best_ friend, but we're friends. We are. And . . . and I've told her some things, shared things with her, and she's always accepted . . . I think she deserves better, all right? I want to help her. And you. I can help you."

Slowly, Finn nods. "Okay. But . . . how? What . . . ?"

Kurt takes a deep breath. "You need to talk to Rachel," he says. "You need to convince her that however well her family might treat her, they're not good people. They're murderers, even."

Finn kinda bristles at that. "You think it's that easy?" he asks.

"You have to try!" Kurt says. "If you care about her at all — "

"Maybe if I care about her, I don't want her to realise that the people she loves most are murdering bastards!" Finn exclaims.

Kurt can't do this, can't put this on Finn, can't look at him like that and act like this is all easy. He sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"Look, if I try to talk to tell her all this, I'll lose her, Kurt," he says. That's why he _hasn't_ tried to talk about her dad with her before. "I'll lose her," he repeats. "She won't side with me. It won't do any good. I won't be able to convince her, and she'll leave me, and it'll just . . . it won't even do any good. I'm sorry."

"You'll have to deal with it eventually," Kurt points out.

Finn just shakes his head.

"This is . . . Finn, this is bigger than her and your relationship."

"What is that supposed to mean? I thought you said you wanted to help Rachel. I thought that's exactly what this is about."

Kurt suddenly won't look at him, and Finn frowns. This _is_ about a lot more than Rachel, isn't it? Kurt isn't here simply to help Rachel, or to help Finn. "Kurt," Finn says, trying to catch his eye.

"I know what happened," Kurt whispers. He clears his throat again and meets Finn's gaze, a mask of bravery plastered across his face. "I know," he says. "I know what happened to Matt."

Finn freezes, and Kurt goes on quickly, as if he suddenly _needs_ to tell everything.

"It was them, Finn. It was the Berrys. I came to the dance with my friend Mercedes, but I lost track of her, and when I went to find her in her room — she's a boarder, see — and I went to the third floor, and I saw him walk out of Matt's room. I saw him walk out, right before midnight. Right after — right _after_."

"Who?" Finn breathes. "Puckerman?"

Kurt shakes his head. "Karofsky," he says. "It was him, Finn. I saw him walk out of Matt's room, and I know it was Matt's room because I'm friends with Artie, his roommate. I saw him, Finn. He walked right by me, and he called me a nasty name."

"But — but if it was Karofsky, then it _wasn't_ Rachel's dad," Finn says.

"Karofsky is friends with Puckerman, Finn," Kurt says. "He's Polish, and his dad did time a while back but had his sentence cut in half with the help of Leroy Matthews. You know who that is, right? The Berry family lawyer? Rachel's _papa_?"

Finn shakes his head, trying to put all the pieces together. Karofsky _is_ close with the Berrys.

Hell, he helped Puck beat Finn up.

"Karofsky works for Mr. Berry," Kurt says. "And he picked Rachel up from the dance, you know. She left at midnight, she told me so herself, and she said her friend David picked her up. David _Karofsky_. It's the perfect excuse for him to be at the school. He probably killed Matt and then drove Rachel home, the perfect excuse to be at the school, and all at the request of her dad."

"Shit," Finn mutters, because that _totally_ works, and Rachel did leave at midnight.

"Finn, this has been eating away at me. And I know that if I tell my mom, she'll use it to try to help re-elect herself, and she'll probably tell your dad, and it'll all be a disaster, and Rachel will be under suspicion as party to everything, and —"

"So you just told me," Finn says.

Kurt nods. "And you can tell Rachel."

"You really think she'll believe me?"

"If she'll believe anyone, it's you."

"But . . . but what good'll it do?" Finn asks. "If I tell her, and she believes me, what then?" Kurt acts like he has all the answers, and Finn really, really hopes he does.

"I thought maybe you could convince her to tell the police," Kurt says, and his voice is hesitant. "If it came from her, everything would be much easier. She wouldn't be in any trouble, and the case would be more solid. She might even be able to find evidence. Matt would actually have justice, and maybe this one crazy _battle_ between our parents and Hiram Berry will be over."

"Okay," Finn says slowly. "Let me get this straight. You just dropped the bomb on me about who killed Matt, and now you want me to tell Rachel that same secret, make her believe it, and then convince her to turn her own family into the police?"

"Yes," Kurt says.

"Dude, you don't even have any evidence!" Finn says. "And if I'm supposed to make Rachel turn on her family, make her believe they're fucked up, then — then I'm gonna need more than that you saw Karofsky."

"It's all I have," Kurt says.

"Then _you_ go to the police. Even if your mom tries to use it for re-election, it's still out there, and maybe with you as a witness, it'll be enough to bring Rachel's dad down —"

"With me as a witness?" Kurt repeats. "You do know we're talking about the murder of the _last_ witness, right? If I go to the police myself, forget what my mom or your dad will do. I'll be the next person shot clean in the head twice as I lie in bed."

Finn stares at him.

"Finn, the only way Hiram Berry and his whole crime organisation comes tumbling down is if somebody from the inside pulls the trigger. Rachel is the _perfect_ person, 'cause, no matter what, her dad won't ever hurt her. I've met him, and I've seen him with her."

"I don't . . . this is a lot, Kurt. This is just _a lot_. How am I . . . ?" He pauses, frowning slightly as Kurt gazes past him. Finn glances back and sees a girl walking towards them, and she waves and smiles. Finn looks back at Kurt.

"Hiram Berry killed Matt," Kurt tells him, voice low, words fast, "and he put Artie in a wheelchair, and he sent Jesse to the hospital for two months. And those are just my friends. He's bad news, and we have the chance to stop him. If you don't care about that, then care about Rachel, because this is your way to save her." He stands. "Mercedes!" he greets.

Finn doesn't have the chance to respond.

Kurt introduces him to Mercedes, who Rachel has talked about before, and Finn smiles and nods and tries to be nice. But he escapes as soon as he can. He can't believe everything that just happened. Is Kurt for real?

As if it wouldn't be hard enough to convince Rachel that her dad is a mob boss, Kurt wants Finn also to convince her to turn that mob boss into the police for murder without any actual evidence?

And what about all that stuff with Rachel getting trapped and everything?

She trusts him, and she really, really likes him, and she thinks they'll get married—but how is he supposed to shatter this whole glass world she lives in? Kurt can pull Finn out of that, but Finn willingly walked into this fragile castle that Rachel won't even admit exists.

Finn doesn't really pay attention to any of his afternoon classes, and he calls Rachel as soon as school lets out before he can stop himself. She has dance, he knows that, and he's supposed to be at the station, but he needs to talk to her.

She sounds so chipper on the phone, and he wants to ask about her dress, but he just can't make himself. He decides he'll ask her when he sees her.

"Are you free tonight?" he asks. She is, and she promises to meet him for dinner. "I need to drop by the house after dance to take a shower, but I'll call you when I'm leaving."

That's fine, and he forces himself to hang up and drive to the station.

He'll just bullshit his dad again, and then he'll meet her, and . . . and he'll figure this all out. He _needs_ to. He thinks about when he saw her yesterday, and that absolutely awesome date.

This one isn't gonna be so awesome, is it?

* * *

><p>His cousin owns a lot of shit. How did Puck not know that before?<p>

He tears open another dresser drawer, shoves aside even _more_ sweaters, and finds nothing. Okay, she doesn't hide anything in her dresser. She isn't a cliché. He can work with that. He opens her little china ballerina jewelery box, and sifts through way too many animal earrings.

Nothing.

But there's gotta be some kind of clue.

He doesn't really give a fuck about most people. Family isn't most people, though, and he isn't stupid. He loves his crazy cakes cousin, he does, but she can't lie to save her life, and she's lied to him ten times over in the last month and a half. She avoids him, too, apparently has all these friends he knows nothing about, and, fuck, he's sick of it.

He asks Santana, and she shrugs him off, telling him if Rachel wants to fuck somebody that's none of his business. But it _is_ his business, 'cause he's _made_ it his business, and if some douche wants to go within ten feet of her, then that dickhead better be ready to deal with Puck.

And why would she keep a relationship secret, anyway? She didn't with Jesse St. Asswad.

She tells him she can't hang out with him that night because she wants to meet up with friends. He tells her that Santana can come over too, if she wants, and she can even invite that Kurt kid. She says that's sweet of him, but she means other friends. The fuck other friends does she have? He asks as much, and, yeah, all she does is give him a speech about crass language.

It takes him about two minutes to decide this needs to end _now_.

The moment he hears the shower in her bathroom start, he makes a beeline for her room. But he can't find _anything_.

He looks under her bed, 'cause apparently chicks think under the bed is this massive storage space, and all he finds are boxes of arts and crafts. Fuck. Okay. He sits down on her bed and glares at her army of stuffed animals, all arranged perfectly. This is stupid. He doesn't know what he even expects to find. And if he finds something like a box of condoms, he'll _kill_ somebody.

Theresa said Rachel flirted with this punk named Jack at Gus's place a while back.

Is Rachel with some guy named Jack? How come it's a secret? And what if this has nothing to do with a dude? Rachel's been through a lot lately, with that motherfucker Hudson and his police. It still makes Puck _pissed_ to think about the fact that they actually interrogated _Rachel_.

She's like a baby bunny. Nobody with a soul interrogates a _baby bunny_. He scoffs to himself.

Chris Hudson doesn't have a soul, does he? That's not news. And he'd totally do something like try to talk to Rachel in private, try to mess with her mind, try to threaten her to betray her family. It's not like Rachel ever would, and even is she did, she's got no way _to _betray them.

It's a rule that Uncle Hiram has always had. The family business isn't something women can swallow, and it's up to the men of the family to make sure that the girls stay safe and sound, that they stay happy and healthy and away from all the _indelicate_ matters of business. And Puck agrees. He doesn't want debts or drugs or dicks anywhere near his ma, or his sister, or his cousin.

They're too good for that.

And look at the way Rachel reacted to what happened to Matt. She was _terrified_, and upset, and cried, and she just shouldn't be exposed to that stuff. He won't let her be, least of all by some dirty cop like Christopher Hudson. But —

He looks around her room. This is useless, and if she catches him in here she'll pitch a fit like she loves. He shakes his head and starts out of the room, only to pause in the doorway.

Her phone.

If she made plans with her random ass friends, then her phone'll have some numbers, won't it?

He picks up the pink, bedazzled thing, unlocks the screen, and checks out her Call History.

Most of the names are familiar; he sees a lot from Santana and from Uncle Hiram. But who the hell is James Brolin? Puck recognises the name, but he can't put his finger on it. As he scrolls through the Call History, though, James Brolin appears again and again and _again_.

Wait. He knows that name. He _totally_ knows that name. Barbra fucking Streisand is married to a dude named James Brolin. Rachel's mentioned the name to him before for that reason. And there's no way she talks to Mr. Streisand on a regular basis.

Puck hits call. It doesn't take long for somebody to pick up.

"_Hey Babe._ . . . _You there? Is something the matter? Can you not come tonight? Rach?_"

He hangs up on the asshole, fisting his hand around the phone. He might not be best friends with that motherfucker, but he's met him enough times to know what his voice sounds like.

In her bathroom, the shower turns off.

Puck tosses the phone onto the bed and stalks out of the room. He's got some major shit to do.

* * *

><p>He takes her to the vegan ice cream shop she loves, and she doesn't even have to ask.<p>

But something's the matter. She knows. He's been funny all night, ever since he called her after school ended to invite her out. They're sitting at a plastic white table outside the ice cream store, the street empty around them, and she watches him sip his peach smoothie, and she really wishes she could read minds. Is he upset with her? But why? He can't be. Is this about his dad?

She really hates that man, least of all for what he does to Finn, making him feel bad like this.

"How's your smoothie?" she finally asks.

He glances at her, giving a small smile. "Good."

She nods. "I'm glad."

It's quiet again.

"Finn?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you mad at me?"

He looks surprised. "No, no, not at all." He smiles awkwardly again.

"Oh, well, you seem a little preoccupied. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," he says, and he doesn't look away this time. He still seems on edge, though. "But, um, can I ask you a kinda random question? Just, like, 'cause?"

"Sure," she says. This will take them to the heart of the matter. "Ask me anything."

He sets down his smoothie. "What do, um, what do you think happened to Matt?"

"To — to Matt?" she echoes. "I don't know." She doesn't really think about it very much, to be honest. She hates that something like that happened in her own school, and that everybody puts the blame on her family, when they've done nothing to deserve that. And she feels terrible that she feels worse for her own family than for Matt, who was always so sweet to her and was _murdered_.

"I kinda have an idea," Finn says, stuttering slightly as he _pushes_ the words out of his mouth.

"Oh," she says. "Okay."

"See, um, somebody actually told me what happened," Finn goes on, and he suddenly won't look at her again. "He was scared to go to the police, but he told me about how he saw this guy leave Matt's room right after when the murder would have happened. It was Kurt."

Rachel stares at him, incredulous. "_Kurt_ killed Matt? That's impossible!"

"No!" His eyes go wide. "No, no, I mean Kurt talked to me. He saw what happened."

"Oh," Rachel repeats, letting out a shaky breath. "And he told you this? I didn't know you two were friends. We are, he and I, although I think sometimes he likes to act as if we aren't, but that's really, um, that's really irrelevant right now. He really saw the murderer?"

Finn only nods.

"He needs to go the police, then," Rachel says, "to your father. He has to. He's a witness."

"Yeah, but he's scared, 'cause, like, Matt was a witness, you know? He was a witness, and that's why he was killed, so Kurt is afraid if he comes forward then he'll end up dead, too."

"I didn't know that Matt. . . ." Rachel shakes her head, shocked.

"Matt got mixed up with some dealers," Finn says. "And, um, when some police caught him, he agreed to talk to my dad, told him that he could help bring down this whole crime organisation, but before he and my dad could talk, somebody killed him. And Kurt saw who."

"Finn, this is . . . there's protection for Kurt. We can help protect him. Okay. This is what we'll do. We'll go to the police with him, and we'll help him —"

"Rachel," Finn says, shaking his head, and he looks sick, almost. "It was your dad."

"I'm sorry?"

"Rachel." He says her name almost like a plea, and her heart starts to hammer against her chest, as if to leap right out, to escape before he can go on. "_Rachel_," he says, "Matt was a witness against your dad. Against Puckerman and your family. And Kurt he saw — he saw Dave Karofsky walk out of Matt's room. Karofsky killed Matt, on orders from your father."

He did not just say that. He didn't.

His eyes rove over her face, and he shifts slightly, shifts closer to her, his eyes eager in a wild, desperate kind of way. "Rachel, you know Karofsky is close with your family. He works for your dad, just like_ his_ dad does, and he killed Matt. It was him, and it was your father who told him to."

"No," Rachel says. "No, that's not true. No!" How can he say something like that? "Everybody always blames my father for crimes, but he has never ever done anything wrong! And I never though that you, of all people, my boyfriend, _my boyfriend_ would accuse him —"

"Rachel," he breaks in, shaking his head, "don't do that. Don't ignore the truth. I've tried to, because I like you, I really like you, and I told myself that what our dads did doesn't matter, but it does, because, Rachel, baby, your dad —"

"No," she cuts in, "stop right there, Finn Hudson. You cannot call me baby and then say something awful about my father!"

It's silent, the desperation still in his eyes, the disbelief surely still shining in hers.

"Have you really thought," she says slowly, "all this time that we were together, that my father is some sort of criminal?" He doesn't reply right away, and she feels her heart sink in her chest. "You said you weren't like your father!" she says. "You said —"

"I'm not like my father," he insists. "I'm not. I would have never interrogated you, or pulled half the crap my dad does, and I never will. But just 'cause he's an asshole, doesn't mean your dad isn't who he is, Rachel. You have to know that. I told you I didn't care who your dad was, and I don't want to care, but if he . . . Kurt says —"

"I don't know when you and Kurt Hummel suddenly became such good friends," Rachel snaps, near to tears that she refuses to cry, "but Kurt is wrong, do you hear me? If Karofsky killed Matt, then _Karofsky killed Matt_, and my father has nothing to do with that."

This has happened before. Her friends have made these accusations before. Tina has tried to tell her that Noah commits terrible crimes, and Jesse once told her that her family were mobsters, and none of that is true, it isn't, and she can't believe that _Finn_ would do this to her, too.

"You know that's not true," Finn says, voice low. "Rachel, you know your dad is —

"My father," she says, "is a _businessman_. Okay? It's not hard to understand."

"Rachel, listen to yourself," Finn says, and there's still half a plea in his voice, but something else there, too, a kind of frustration that makes her furious. "He's a businessman. Of what? What he actually do? What's his business, Rachel?"

"I don't know," she says. She hates the look in his eyes. "It's not — it's boring. It's just — just business. I — he makes investments!" That's certainly not something a mob boss does, now is it?

"Yeah, maybe in drugs," he replies. "Rachel, _please_."

She shoots to her feet. She won't listen to this. She won't. "No," she says, "no. He — he makes investments, and insurance. He deals in insurance."

Finn purses his lips. "You mean he insures that people he doesn't like end up dead?"

"Stop," she says. "Stop it. He's a _businessman_," she says. She pushes back her chair and starts down the street, fumbling with her purse to pull out her cell phone. Santana warned her that Finn would hurt her like this, but she didn't want to believe her. He doesn't let her walk away, though.

He follows, catching her elbow. "Rachel, you know I'm right. You know Kurt is right. We wouldn't say this stuff if it weren't true. And you have to admit the truth, you have to, because it's the only way —"

She spins around. "Business, Finn," she says. "I — things like — like — real estate! He's in real estate. And how _dare_ you —?"

"If he's in real estate, Rachel, it's in warehouses for prostitution rings," Finn says.

"_Stop it_!" she shouts. She can't listen to this. She won't. How can he say these things? "I won't let you say things like this, Finn. I won't. My father isn't responsible for what happened to Matt. He isn't. My father is not a part of the mob!"

"You're right," Finn says. "He's not a part of the mob. He's the head of it. And you know that. Your ex-boyfriend, Jesse St. James? My dad has told me about him, about how he spent all this time in the hospital after what was supposedly a car accident. And that's how Puck's dad died, too, right? And you said your grandpa died in a car accident, too, and you know Matt's roommate, Artie? He was in a car accident, too, right after his mom tried to put Sandy Ryerson, your dad's cousin, in prison."

He swallows thickly, and she can see his Adam's apple bob.

"That's a lot of car accidents, Rachel."

She thinks of Uncle Luke, a man she never met but was always told died in a car accident.

_"He didn't, Rach. That's what your dad and my mom told us, but it's not true. It was a lie to soften the blow, 'cause we were little kids, and they didn't think we'd really understand. And you know how your dad likes to protect you. You wanna know what really happened?"_

She stares up at Finn, and his face is hard, but his eyes aren't, they aren't, they never are.

"Jesse _was_ in a car accident," she says. "I visited him at the hospital myself, and somebody else ran a red light. And — and car accidents happen all the time. They do." She takes a deep breath. "Your father is the criminal," she tells him. "Your father is a corrupt cop who tries to slander my father because my father is a decent businessman who refuses to prompt the corruption of the police department. I thought _you_ knew _that_, Finn." She tears her arm away from him.

He shakes his head. "Rachel —"

"And, you know what, I know about some of the terrible things your dad has done, Finn. I know that he murdered my uncle, beat him to death, I know he did. Noah told me. He told me the whole story! And I know that your mother isn't a saint either —"

"My mother?" he says. "My mother doesn't have anything to do with any of this."

"Oh, you can call my father a mob boss, but I can't call your mother a — a —"

"A what?" Finn pushes. "My mother drinks a lot, I know that, and she takes way too many meds, and for the past, like, three years, she's had an affair. Is that what you know, Rachel? Fine. You're right. That's true. My mom is in love with Burt Hummel. But you know why she won't just leave my dad? Because she's too scared. She's so trapped in this messed up life, and she doesn't know _how_ to leave my dad. And you're gonna be her, Rachel. Kurt knows it, and I'm afraid to know it, too, but I do, Rachel. I do."

He's started to cry, and she hates that more than anything else, because he really does believe the words out of his mouth, doesn't he? But _how_? She bites her lip hard to bite back her own tears.

"I'm sorry that you feel that way about your mother and your father and their relationship," she says, "but that's . . . my father has made mistakes, too, and he's not too self-righteous to pretend otherwise, like your dad. But he is not a drug dealer or a murderer or anything else you've accused him of, Finn. He's not. And I hate that after everything, after I started to fall in love with you — _God_, Finn, after everything, I can't believe you would say any of this."

"I don't want to," Finn says, "but it's the truth. And you wouldn't be so upset if you didn't know it too, didn't know that I'm right. It's not gonna go away, Rachel. It's not. Your dad is the head of the Polish mob in New York City, and he has been since probably before you were born. And he's the reason Matt is dead, and you can't run from that forever, or you'll end up like my mom. Or worse."

She stares at him. "I don't have anything to run away from, Finn. _That_'s what I know."

He only stares back at her.

"I'm going to call Santana to pick me up here," she says, voice shaking despite her best effort. "I don't want to see you again."

His jaw is tight, and his gaze drops to the ground. "You'll have to face it eventually," he says, and he shoves his hands in his pockets.

She steps past him, pulling her phone out of her purse, but her hands tremble too much even to unlock the touch screen, and she glances back at Finn. "You're just like your dad, you know," she says. "You lied to me. Or maybe you're the person lying to himself. You're just like him."

"You should tell your dad that," Finn says, and she feels sick as she looks at the expression on his face, because it's so wrong, and she's so sick, so, so, sick, her stomach churning and turning over, her heart lodged up in her throat in the most awful way. "You tell him all about me," Finn goes on. "And then maybe next week I'll be in a car accident. That's how it works, right?"

He turns away.

She manages to unlock her phone, and her eyes burn as she hits the speed dial for her best friend.

And she waits on the edge of the pavement in silence as he sits back at the stupid plastic table outside the closed ice cream store, and she doesn't start to cry until Santana picks her up, until Rachel watches in the rear view mirror as he walks back towards his car.

Until she realises that he stayed there so she wouldn't have to wait by herself.

She tries to hate him, but she can't make herself, no matter how wrong he might be.

**tbc.**


	5. Chapter 5

a/n: that was a little faster, right? Thanks again so much to Quinn for betaing :)

* * *

><p>His head <em>thuds<em> with pain, and he can't believe he lost it like that.

The look in her eyes, the sharp gasps she took, the way her every move became jerky — he should have stopped when he saw her start to fall to pieces like that. But how could he? He wanted so desperately for her to admit what she knows, because she has to know, she _has_ to —

He veers the car to the side of the road and slams his fist on the door.

She wouldn't even look at him when she drove off with Santana, and he has a feeling she really won't ever look at him again. It's easier to drop him than to face the truth about her family. And he hates that, he _hates_ it, but right now he can't seem to make himself hate her, and he feels his eyes burn with frustrated tears, and maybe tears for something else he doesn't want to think about.

But what does he do now?

He takes a slow breath, blasts a random station on the radio, and pulls the car back onto the road. He should talk to his dad. He should tell him about Karofsky. It's the only way. And maybe Kurt is right, maybe it won't do any real good, maybe the fort can only fall from within, but Finn can't do _nothing_, and if Rachel talks to her dad, then Kurt might be in trouble, and he needs protection.

Finn tightens his grip on the steering wheel. He hates to think that Rachel would ever be a link in the chain that led to a murder, but she might be. She probably has been before, with Jesse St. James or with somebody else, or with more than one somebody else, and —

He spins the car stereo volume up as loud as he can and tries to drown out the sound of his own thoughts. It doesn't work, but he doesn't care, and he clenches his jaw to fight the pounding in his head as he parks haphazardly in a reserved spot at the police station.

And when he walks in on his dad with Captain Defibaugh, both talking in low voices, he stands there with his hands in fists until his dad catches the look on his face. "Give us a few minutes, Adam," his dad says, clapping the captain on his shoulder. Defibaugh leaves, and Finn drops into his empty seat, even as he starts to think maybe he shouldn't do this.

Like, will Rachel hate him for this? Is this the nail in the coffin for them?

"You have something for me, don't you, kid?" his dad asks. "About the case, huh?"

But he's pretty sure that sucker got hammered in half an hour ago, didn't it?

"Son?"

He looks across the desk at his father, sitting up in his chair, hair flattened on one side and shooting towards the ceiling on the other, a mustard stain on his shirt, and a glint in his eyes. Finn thinks about what Kurt said, about everything Rachel said between her adamant denials that her father has ever committed a crime, and his father prompts him again, eyes narrowing slightly.

"I . . . I talked to Kurt Hummel," Finn says. "He pulled me aside. He didn't wanna say anything, 'cause he's freaked, but he saw the murderer on the third floor. He was at the dance, and he went to the third floor to find his friend Mercedes, and he saw a guy walk out of Matt's room, right at the time when Matt was murdered, and. . . . He saw . . . Karofsky."

It's out. This is the right thing to do. This is his best way to help Rachel, even.

If her dad goes to prison, then —

"Karofsky?" his dad echoes, and his breath has grown loud, his eyes wide. "David Karofsky? I know him. His daddy spent a few years locked up a couple years back, didn't he? That Karofsky? Works for that bastard Berry, doesn't he? Ha! _Ha_!" His father slams his fist on the desk.

"You gotta protect him, Dad," Finn says, and he suddenly really wants to lie down. He thinks he might be sick. "Kurt, Dad. He's a witness, and Matt was, too, and —"

"That's right, kid, that's right!" his dad cries. "I'll call up Anna, huh, tell her to bring her boy down here. Good kid, he is! Good kid. This is gold, son. Adam! ADAM! JACKIE! ASSES IN HERE! Boy, you've done good. You've done real good."

"It's not enough, though," Finn says. "He . . . I mean, he's just one witness, and he didn't even actually see the murder. He just saw Karofsky up there at the time of the murder —"

"It'll be enough," his dad says dismissively. "We got us a name, and we'll bring him and box that boy until he tattles on old man Berry, and then, hell, we'll bring in the best on this, Carrie Grady's the best prosecutor this side of New York, and she'll help, and if she don't get the job done, I'll do it my damn self, hell! Adam, good, I want you to call up Anna. Anna Hummel. City Council. That's right. And bring in Jameson, too. I need him to. . . ."

His dad continues, half shouting, on his feet now as officers rush in and out of the office. Meanwhile, Finn sits there and wishes his head wouldn't hurt, and he remembers the accusations that Rachel hurled at him, and the words his father excitedly exclaimed take root in his head.

"Rachel said you beat her uncle to death," Finn says, more to himself, and he starts to feel sick. "Dad. Dad!" His father glances at him. "Rachel said you beat her uncle to death," Finn repeats. "Did you? Is that what it means to get the job done yourself?"

"You . . . Rachel?" his dad says. "Rachel Berry? You been talking to her? That's my boy! And what'd she tell you? She spill the beans on her old man? If you got more than Kurt Hummel, you tell me." He leans across the desk, knocking some of his own papers off.

"Her uncle," Finn says. He doesn't know what he needs to know, but he feels like shit. He has to know if his dad is just an asshole or if he's a whole other animal, and — "She said you beat her uncle to death, you and some guys."

"You talking about Luke Berry? Boy died years back. It was a little gang violence. Or that's what went down in the file, anyhow," his dad says, and he grins, before barking another order at a detective an instant later. He turns back to Finn. "But you and this girl —"

"So you did," Finn interrupts loudly, incredulous. He stands. "You killed him."

His dad pauses, and then he waves his hand at Detective Reynolds, who backs out of the room. He stares at Finn for a moment, and he walks around his desk to slam his office door shut. "Sit back down, kid," he says, voice low. "You been talking a little more with that girlie than you've told your old man, haven't you?"

For a split second, Finn considers telling his father everything. It's only a split second, though.

"We're friends," Finn says. "And I tried to talk to her about what Kurt told me, because I thought . . . I thought she might realise the truth about her family, but she didn't, and she said all this stuff —" He shakes his head.

"Now you listen to me, Finn. She's a pretty thing, I know. But you don't listen to her. She's her daddy's daughter, huh? And even if she doesn't know a thing, she's still part a'that fucking family, and that whole damn ship needs to sink. I've been up against them since I first started as a detective, you hear? And I know that family. I know what they do. And they _deserve_ to burn. All of 'em. _All_ of 'em, kid. "

"But you killed her uncle."

His father sighs. "My daddy worked himself to death to try and put Hiram Beroski in prison. He's the best police this city ever saw, and that bastard never even saw the inside of a station. And he raised his kids, three of 'em, as pretentious little brats, with a nice, pretty American name and colleges under their belts and a whole pretty little future. And me?"

Finn stares at him, nodding a little.

"And me," his dad says, "I started on the force when my daddy was commissioner, and I was a rookie when it all went down. Now I told you this before, but I want you to listen again. Beroski went down. Real gang violence. And his boys slaughtered half the souls in this city in revenge. They declared war on the other two big Polish families, the families that saw their daddy dead, and there wasn't a kid on the street back twenty years ago who didn't know about the Berry brothers. They came out on top, Hiram as the brains and Luke as the bronze."

He pauses, running a hand over his hair. "Well, we finally brought Luke Berry in on account a murder of a police officer, a friend of mine. Went to academy with me. Peter Atkinson. Good man, and he was fucking_ mutilated_ by Luke Berry. But before my man Peter could get justice, Hiram Berry swoops in with his little boyfriend lawyer, and Luke walks free without a day in prison. Not a damn day, kid. Not a motherfucking damned _day_."

His dad sits on the edge of the desk now, puts his hands on his knees, and leans towards Finn. He stares intently, and his words come out slowly and purposefully.

"I did kill him, Finn. I did. I delivered justice like any police worth his motherfucking salt. And I'm not ashamed of that. I am the law. Police are the law, and I'm police. And let me tell you — the world's a safer place with that bastard outta it, and either Hiram Berry'll rot in prison or he'll rot in a ditch on the side of the road with a baseball bat-sized dent in his head, but it doesn't matter. I'll take him down one way or another if it's the last fucking thing I do."

Finn doesn't know what do say. He sits there, and he stares at his father, and he tries to remember how to breathe.

"You might not understand now," his dad says, standing. "But you will. You will, kid. Now, you get on home. Get a good night's sleep, and then I want you here tomorrow morning, when we talk to Anna's kid. We'll keep him safe, even after we bring in Karofsky. Trust me. I don't make the same mistake twice. Now get on."

It's started to rain when Finn steps outside the station. It's dark, probably close to midnight now, and Finn stands on the street for a moment, staring out at nothing, the rain cold little pricks against his face.

He's in love with Rachel.

He is. He doesn't know when that happened, but the thought occurs to him like fact as he watches water start to collect in the potholes on the road and then travel in little rivers towards the gutters. He's in love with her, plain and simple.

But it doesn't matter, because even if she hadn't walked away from him, they wouldn't have ever been able to make a relationship work.

They're on opposite sides of the battlefield.

She refuses to switch sides, and he can't really blame her, because he doesn't know what the point would even be. His side isn't any better.

His dad talked about how the Berry brothers started a war. Hiram Berry is still in a war — with Chris Hudson. It's a fucking war. And it'll never end. Finn's dad will bring down Hiram, one way or another just like he said, even if Kurt can't really help, even if Karofsky refuses to give his boss up. Somebody like Puck will take over, and Finn will become a police officer, and. . . .

And it never really ends. It's the mob and the police, and it'll never _not_ be that way.

Finn shoves his hands in his pockets and starts down the street. He'll come back for his car later.

* * *

><p>Santana tries to talk to her on the car ride home.<p>

Rachel only shakes her head and stares out the window until Santana takes the hint and leaves her alone to cry. The house seems especially quiet, and Rachel manages the barest of smiles for Mrs. Proctor before she hides away in her room. She sits down slowly on her bed, letting her purse slide off her shoulder. More tears come, and she crawls across her bed to bury her face in her pillows and clutch all her stuffed animals.

It always goes like this. People who say they care about her always turn on her, always accuse her father for no reason at all, and she hates it, hates that, wants to hate _them_.

Their entire relationship, Finn believed her dad to be a mob boss. How? How is that even possible?

And his last words to her, implying that her dad would try to kill him — why would he say something like that? That's cruel, and he's not cruel, he's not, _he's not_, he's never been before.

She swipes at her tears and turns slightly, staring at Button McBee, her stuffed kangaroo, and the black marble eyes stare back at her, and she squeezes her eyes shut and cries harder, unable to breathe properly, because this is all wrong, all so impossibly wrong.

Karofsky didn't kill Matt. He isn't like that. He might be tough and quiet, but he isn't a murderer. Rachel has known him for years, and Puck considers him a best friend, and her daddy loves him. That does _not_ mean that her father asked Karofsky to kill for him. That's not what happened.

She remembers when Mr. Karofsky went to prison, and she helped bake a pie with her aunt for Mrs. Karofsky and Dave. Her daddy told her that Mr. Karofsky had been falsely accused for attempted first-degree murder of Elaine Abrams. But her papa helped prove his innocence. Mrs. Abrams didn't die, and even though poor Artie ended up a wheelchair, that car accident was completely an accident. Right? No matter what Jesse or anyone else told her, it was an _accident._

She should be upset. Finn isn't who she thought he was, so she has nothing to miss. The boy she liked, the boy she very nearly loved — oh God, _oh God _— he wasn't real, isn't real, isn't _Finn_, and she won't let him make her hurt like this. She refuses.

Her father is a _businessman_.

And all those spiteful lies Finn said are nothing more than that — spiteful lies.

Finn isn't spiteful. But he is. The real Finn is, even if hers isn't, even if she didn't know the real Finn until tonight, when he claimed that he wanted to help her, and he looked at her with those big, desperate eyes, as if he wanted to help her, when all he wanted to do was —

Her back arches off the bed as she grits her teeth to stop a sob, because she doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to cry over him, but her head hurts and her heart hurts and she needs some Barbra, desperately needs to watch Barbra grace the screen and sing Rachel to sleep. She stumbles out of bed, half brushing the tears out of her eyes, and goes downstairs to pick out a DVD.

"Sweetheart, I didn't hear you come in," her daddy says, and her back stiffens. "Sweetheart?"

She hurriedly wipes at her eyes again and then turns around, holding _The Way We Were_ and trying to offer her daddy a smile. But concern takes over his face, and he steps toward her.

"What's the matter?" he asks. "Did something happen? Did somebody upset you?" He looks so upset, so worried for her, and she starts to cry, to _sob_, and he's by her side in an instant. "Come on," he says. "Come on. Sit here. Oh, my sweet princess. What happened?"

"I . . . it's . . . it's this boy," she says, relaxing against him.

"A boy?" he repeats, mouth tightening. "A boy hurt you, Rachel? Who? Tell me his name."

She looks at him, and she means to say his name. She means to tell him everything, all about Finn Hudson and their secret relationship and all the terrible things Finn told her. She really does. But as he rubs her back and stares at her, waiting, she knows she's had this conversation before.

She sat in his lap in her office and told her about the bait that Santana offered and the way Jesse so willingly cheated on her, and her daddy promised her it would all be okay, he would make it all okay, and no matter what she could always count on him, and —

And she sees the look on Finn's face as he talks about his mother, trapped.

"Daddy, what kind of business do you do?"

"What . . . ?" He shakes his head. "I do all sorts of business, Princess. Why? This boy, Rachel —"

"But do you — do you deal in, like, stock or something like that? I mean, finances, or — or what, Daddy? You have to be in the business of something, right? I just . . . I realised I don't know what kind of business you do. And I want to know. What — what business do you do?"

"I do all sorts of business," he says, and he smiles softly, reassuringly. "Anything to take care of my favourite girl in the world." He taps her affectionately on the nose.

But that isn't an answer.

She lets out a shuttering breath, because she will not go down that road, she will not, she _can_ not.

This is so stupid. She won't let what Finn told her go to her head. He's mistaken, just like Jesse, just like Tina, just like all those people who don't realise that the terrible things that happen in this city are from corrupt police like Christopher Hudson. That's right. That's the truth.

"I know something's happened," he tells her. "You're so shaken up, Princess, and it breaks my heart. Did a boy say something to you? What happened?" He runs a hand over her hair.

"He . . ." The words won't leave her mouth. She tries to say his name, and all she can think of is Jesse, lying in a hospital bed, smiling tightly when she says how sorry she is that a drunkard ran a red light and nearly killed him, and — "He said things about you, Daddy. This boy. From school."

"You know not to listen to everything people say," her daddy replies gently.

"My old boyfriend Jesse," she says, "he was in a car accident only three days after he tried to cheat on me. That's just a coincidence, right?"

Her daddy smiles, looking puzzled. "Of course, Princess. But if you ask me, he deserved nothing better, not for the way he treated you. I like to think of it as karma. And if a stupid boy tells you otherwise, you just ignore him, okay?"

She nods and presses her face into his chest as he hugs her.

"There are some terrible people out there, and they'll say anything to hurt you, especially because they know there's no worse way to hurt me than to make my girl sad. But you don't pay them any mind, because I'm here. I'm always here, and I love you, and they can't hurt you, not really."

She loves him so much, and she won't ever doubt him. Never.

He kisses the top of her head and whispers that he loves her. It's when she reaches the doorway, ready to return to her room and to start the movie, that he asks again.

"Before you go, sweetheart, tell me — this boy. Who was it?"

"It was . . . " She still hesitates, and her mind flickers randomly to the sight of Finn with glittery gloss all over his mouth, her lip gloss, and she laughed at him and tried to wipe the gloss away but only made a bigger mess. It was a Wednesday, she remembers, a really cold Wednesday, right before the first snow, and he asked her to explain karma to him —

"Tell me," her daddy encourages. "I'll tell Noah to make sure this boy doesn't bother you anymore, how's that sound? Just tell me his name, Princess."

And her heart starts to thump so loudly she thinks it might have jumped into her ears, because it's all she can hear, or, no, maybe it's lodged in her throat, because she can't seem to breathe properly, but then again maybe it's burst out of her and is on the floor, bloody and pulsing and refusing to let the truth stay buried, but it's not her secret that makes her heart pound.

"You told me once that men who believe in karma are men who can't take care of their own," she says. "You said karma is an excuse. But it was karma that landed Jesse St. James in the hospital?" Her vision blurs for a moment with tears, and when she blinks and the tears break free, his soft face looks ever so slightly off, like she's only ever seen it a few times before.

But whenever she sees that expression, it's not directed at her, and if she happens to catch a glance it doesn't matter because he only gently shoos her out of the room moments later so that he can talk with her papa and her cousin and Mr. Ryerson about "business."

She can't believe any of this. She physically can't.

_"But it's the truth. And you wouldn't be so upset if you didn't know it too, didn't know that I'm right. It's not gonna go away, Rachel."_

She stares at her father, and he stares back at her, and then he sighs and smiles at her, and somehow the smile is wrong, it's a cruel smile, a smile that doesn't seem sweet like she always thinks, but patronising, so painfully patronising, and she shakes her head at him, her face flushed with too many feelings.

"Princess," he starts.

"You did that," she says, and the words come out like a gasp. "You had somebody run that red light. And . . . and Matt." She swallows thickly, looking at him incredulously, her nails digging in her palms. "You had Karofsky kill him. No. No, Daddy, please say that's not true. Please."

"It's _not_," he says, standing. "I hate the way that boy treated you, but I wouldn't have him hit by a car. Never, sweetheart. And why would I want to kill Matthew Rutherford? He's a child, a son and a brother, and he has a family, and I would never hurt a family. You know that. You know _me_. This is silly, Rachel." He crosses the room to her as he talks, and he wraps her up in another hug.

"Daddy," she whispers.

"You talk like this anymore," he says, "and you'll break my heart." He pulls back and cups her face. "I'm not responsible for what happened to St. James or Rutherford. I'm not. I promise. And would I make a promise that wasn't true? Would I lie to you?"

"No," she says, "no . . . but you won't — you won't tell me about the kind of business you do, you won't say anything about it, and — what — please, Daddy, what kind of business do you do?"

With her eyes, she pleads for him to give her an answer, a real answer — an answer that she could have shouted at Finn —

"That's what this is about? Rachel, my business isn't something that you need to be concerned with, and I've told you that before. I don't like to talk about business with my daughter. It's not right to bring that into the home, is it? It's boring work, tiring work. You focus on your school and your friends and your music — you voice, so that I can see you up on Broadway some day, and you don't worry about the work your daddy does, okay?"

She nods, and she returns his hug this time.

But that still isn't an answer, is it?

* * *

><p>He tastes blood in his mouth.<p>

And the sound of his phone makes him want to throw up. Or maybe that's just the hangover. He pushes himself to his feet, stumbling with his feet tangled in the sheets that helped him fall off his bed and hit his head against that dumbass English textbook on the ground. It was lying in wait.

He ignores the phone and goes for the bathroom, spits blood into the sink and then finds some aspirin, because his head is gonna _kill_ him. That's the last time he breaks into the liquor cabinet in the basement.

He downs three aspirins and then sinks back down on his bed, ready to sleep away the entire weekend, but his phone beeps with a missed call and he grabs it.

The room spins, and it isn't the hangover this time.

He has a missed call from Rachel. She called. And she left a voicemail.

His hand shakes a little as he calls the voicemail, punches in his password, and then her voice, more timid than ever before, washes over him.

"Finn, it's me. It's Rachel. I know . . . I know we didn't part on the best of terms, but I really need to talk to you, okay? I need to — I need to see you. You're probably still asleep, but when you wake up can you — is there any way you could meet me somewhere? I have the car for the day. Anywhere you want to meet, we can meet there. Please, Finn. Please. Okay? Okay."

The message ends abruptly. He glances at the clock. It's barely past nine in the morning, and he went to bed when it was almost five. But he isn't tired anymore. He calls her back.

She picks up after a single ring.

"I didn't wake you up, did I?" she asks.

He swallows thickly, rubbing his eyes and clutching the phone tightly. "No, no," he says. "Um, you, ah, you wanna meet up still?" he asks, his stomach clenching, afraid she's already changed her mind.

"Yes, please," she says, "anywhere. Or maybe somewhere private, if you don't mind."

"Yeah, yeah, definitely," he tells her quickly, "um, I don't know, um, a good place that, um —"

"How about that nearly abandoned shopping center with the big Books-A-Million that had that close-out sale a few weeks ago?" she suggests. "There's a cute little motel there that's out of the way and private. I — I'd really like to talk to you, Finn." Her voice is so impossibly small, and he nods for a minute before he remembers that she can't see him.

"Okay," he says. "I'm on my way now."

"Me, too."

It takes him way too long to find jeans and a clean t-shirt, and then he thinks maybe he should try to do something with his hair, but he gives up, grabs a Dr. Pepper from the fridge, and is out the door within ten minutes. This is good, right? That she wants to see him? She believes him, maybe?

Her car is already in the parking lot when he pulls up.

He parks beside her, and she walks out of the motel lobby with a key in her hand and hesitance on her face, and he swallows thickly and meets her gaze. "Hey," he sees. She smiles tightly and looks down, and he follows her up the outdoor stairs and to room 208, and he pretends not to see her hand shake a little as she opens the door.

It smells gross inside the room. He doesn't care. He switches on a light, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, and he waits for her to say something. She doesn't, and words tumble out of his own mouth. "I'm sorry," he says. "For — I'm sorry for the way I talked to you yesterday. That stuff I said, about, like, how maybe I'd be in a car accident — I'm sorry."

She nods. "It's okay." She takes a deep breath. "Because you —" She pauses, her face pinching a little. "Because you were right." She looks down. "I asked my dad what kind of business he does," she goes on, voice strained, and she keeps her gaze on the ugly brown floral bedspread. "He never gave me an answer. He said other things, the same things he always says, but it's not okay anymore." Her chin wobbles as her eyes flicker to his face.

"I really just want it to be okay," she whispers, "but it's not, Finn. It's not."

He crosses the room in the three steps and hugs her so suddenly that they sway for a second. He holds her close, holds her tight, and he feels her fingers fist around the material of his shirt. It only lasts for a moment before they break away, and awkwardness soars right back between them. She smoothes out his t-shirt needlessly, hands hovering close to his, eyes darting daringly to his.

She turns abruptly away from him, and then she sits on the bed suddenly, her legs dangling off the end, her shoulders hunched as she leans forward, and he can't catch her gaze, even as he comes to sit hesitantly beside her, the bed squeaking a little. He doesn't really understand what this means, other than that something he said hit home, and she talked to her dad, and — what?

"He loves me so much," she says, voice wet. "And he takes such good care of me. But, Finn, I think you're right about — about — I think Jesse, and Matt, and — but how can that be? I don't — I can't believe it, but I can't not, and I don't know what to do anymore."

She finally looks at him again, and this time it's with this glimmer in her eyes like she needs him to have all the answers, to make this right, and he swallows thickly. He doesn't have _any_ answers, because it's just, this is just, it's —

"It's family," he murmurs. "I talked to my dad, too, Rachel. He did kill your uncle, he told me. And he wasn't even sorry. But it was like — it was like his dad took the law into his own hand and hated your family, so he took the law into his own hand and hates your family, and he expects me to do the same."

She sniffs. "But you won't," she says.

"No," he says. "I won't. And you — your dad, he does what his dad did, and I think your cousin is, like, the same."

"Not Noah," Rachel protests. "He's not like that. Not yet. And I won't let him. . . ."

Finn shakes his head. "It's just . . . it's family," he repeats. "If you're raised that way, then that's what you know, that's what's right for you, and. . . ."

She takes a shuddering breath, nodding slightly and looking down at her lap.

"My father is _not_ a bad man," she says, her tears finally springing free. "But he's done such bad things." She covers a hand over her mouth, and he feels so helpless it makes him _ache_.

"I'm sorry," he says.

She start to cry outright, her whole tiny body shaking, and he doesn't know what to do. He touches her back hesitantly, and when she turns suddenly and presses her face into his chest, he runs a hand over her hair and lets her cry. She talks some, through her tears, but it's all nonsense and he can't catch more than the occasional word.

He nods and offers small smiles and tries to be something other than completely useless.

Finally she draws away from him and stands, hands shaking as she wipes her tears. She slowly sits back down on the bed, sniffs, takes a few slow breaths, and meets his gaze. "I don't . . . what happens now?" she asks. "What do I do? Should I go the police? I should. David — he — I need to — but my daddy, he —"

She shakes her head, biting down on her lip, hard, an attempt to stop more tears.

He feels so shitty as he replies. "I already talked to my dad," he admits. "I told him about Kurt and Karofsky. I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do." He is sorry. He should have kept his mouth shut. But she nods.

"It was the right thing to do," she tells him.

"But my dad?" he says. "He . . . he has his own idea of right." He runs a hand over his hair, and this is all so messed up, but she's here, and she believes him, believes the truth, and that's something, right? That has to be something. It's all he has.

"But what do we do now?" she asks. She pauses. "It's — it is_ we_, right?" Her eyes search his face.

He turns his hand palm up and offers it to her. She smiles weakly, grasping his hand.

"It's we," he says.

She leans forward and presses her forehead against his shoulder, and a moment later he wraps her up in another hug, kissing the top of her hair. The scent of her shampoo, so overwhelmingly sweet, washes over him and he kind of wants to cry, but he settles for simply hugging her a little closer, her knees jumped against his, her head tucked under his chin, her hand still grasping his.

Her cell goes off abruptly, and they both jump slightly.

She scrambles off the bed, checks the screen, and then hits silence. "It's only Santana." She tucks the phone back into her purse, and he watches her.

"Hey, Rachel?" he says. She glances at him, and she moves to stand in front of him, nearly between his knees. "I know this doesn't really fix anything, and that we're still — our dads are still in this — this _war_ — but I just . . . Rachel, I love you." The words come out calm. He means them.

She leans forward, and his head tilts automatically as she kisses him, nose bumping his, her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. She draws away, forehead pressing against his, and rubs her nose affectionately against his. "I love you, too," she says.

They watch cartoons on the television, then, something mindless and easy, and he starts to fall asleep with his head on her stomach, her hands in his hair. She finally tells him to nap a little and she'll go out to buy them some breakfast, and he feels bad, but she laughs at him and tells him not to be silly. "It's not as if we can go together anyway," she says.

He ends up in the shower, trying to wash away last night, because this day is so much better.

They still don't have a plan, don't know what happens next, because her dad is a Polish mobster and she loves him still, and his dad is a the chief of police and he hates him nonetheless. He tries not to think about that, though, as Rachel makes a face as he puts ketchup on his eggs — only to kiss it off his chin later.

He knows she wants to avoid thinking about it, too. Just for the day

But Santana calls another three times, and Rachel finally picks up, and she has to go.

He doesn't really want to see her go, because somehow if she leaves he knows the reprieve is over, and the next time they're together, they'll need to deal with everything. She seems to know the same, and she kisses him quickly in the doorway. "We'll find a way," she says.

Find a way for what? He smiles and nods, and they leave the motel together. She's on her way to turn in the key that cost them $40 for three hours when he discovers the flat tire on his Explorer. He curses, and she offers him her help, but he tells her not to worry about it. It's not like he has anything better to do for the rest of the afternoon.

She pauses as she opens her car door, and she turns and leans up to kiss him again, her lips lingering against his, and he runs his hands down her arms, grasping her hands and squeezing affectionately as she steps back. She smiles a little, wiping his lips with her thumb, and he watches her go with his hands shoved in his pockets.

As he pulls out the spare tire, he thinks about Sam and Mike, and how he never really hangs out with them anymore. Mike is a boss at tires, after he worked in that shop for spare cash last summer. Finn could call them, and they could help, and then maybe he could tell them everything, could come clean. They'd help.

And — and Sam's mom is a judge, isn't she?

He slams the back of his car shut, tire still inside, and heads back into the hotel to call Sam. The guy doesn't pick up, and Finn doesn't leave a message, but he texts him, and he starts to text Mike, too, when the hotel room door bangs open.

He turns, and a baseball bat crashes into his stomach.

It knocks him backwards and into the dresser, and he slumps to the ground, head spinning, to see Noah Puckerman slam the door shut behind him and stand menacingly in front of Finn. _Fuck_.

"You sleep with her?" Puck demands furiously. "You bring her to this sleazy motel to try to fuck her?" His eyes burn, baseball bat in his hand, spit flying from his mouth. "You think you can treat her like that and I wouldn't do nothing?" he roars.

"We met to talk!" Finn says, trying to scramble to his feet, and his torso _screams _at the attempt. "She called me; she picked the place. Okay? Ask her, okay? _Ask her_." He pushes himself to his feet, hands on the dresser. "And, you know what, even if we did sleep together —"

"I told you to stay away from her," Puck says. "I _warned_ you —" He steps closer, nostrils flaring.

Puck stares at him, so pissed that Finn would touch his cousin, and — "I love her," Finn says.

Breathing heavily, Puck glares incredulously. "You love her? Fuck you do, Hudson!" He starts forward, and Finn shoves him backwards, because if Puck isn't really that bad, if he hasn't yet become his uncle, if he's the guy that Rachel wants him to be, he'll fucking _listen_.

"I'm serious," Finn snaps. "This isn't some — some power play. It's not about my dad, or about hers. I'm not gonna let it be about that. I love her. I'm _in love _with her." He pauses, and Puck doesn't say anything, one hand still forward, and one hand still gripping the baseball bat with white knuckles. "And she loves me, man."

Puck shakes his head. "You're a shithead, Finn Hudson. I don't want you near her. You hear me? I know what you're about, and you're gonna stay away from her, or I'm gonna fuck you up."

"It's not up to you," Finn spits. "I'm not leaving her. And she's not gonna leave me. She knows about everything. She knows what her dad does. She's finally admitted it to herself."

Puck looks down, letting the bat drop to the floor, shaking his head once more — then he punches Finn clean in the face. Finn swings back, clipping Puck in the side of the face, his punch totally off-base, and his knuckles burn. "You brought her into this?" Puck shouts, landing another punch. "You wanna say you love her and then tell me you brought her into this?"

Finn tries to shove Puck backwards, but Puck screams in his face. "She's _better_ than you, fucker, and she's _better_ than your little mindfucks!" Finn rams his shoulders into Puck's stomach, and Puck stumbles backwards, lifting the baseball bat as he finds his footing once more. "And who the _fuck_ do you think you are, messing with my family?"

He swings the bat, and Finn catches the end in his hand. His wrist twists and hurts and _fuck_, but he snares the bat away and tosses it clean across the room, moments before Puck takes fistfuls of Finn's shirt and slams him up against the wall, cornering him once more.

"Your family?" Finn repeats furiously. "Your family is the problem, jackass! I didn't want to bring her into this, but she was already in it! She was! She _is_! She's the daughter of a fucking mob boss, and you're a fucking dumbass if you think that means she won't get hurt! She thinks you're innocent, thinks you'd never do something like kill Matt, and maybe you didn't, but I know you've killed before, I know, just like your uncle —"

"You mean just like _your_ dad?" Puck snarls.

Finn wants to tear that look off his face. It's not the good guys and the bad guys. It's not.

"Yeah," Finn says. "Just like my dad. An asshole and a murderer. That's him. But it's not me. It's my dad, and it's your uncle. So let's have it, Puckerman. Are you your uncle, huh?" He shoves Puck in the chest. "You gonna tell him about this? Have him kill me? Or you gonna kill me yourself? You really think Rachel would be okay with that?"

Finn shoves him again, far enough that he can step away from the wall. Puck doesn't say anything, still pissed but finally silent. Finn grabs his cell off the bed, and he feels like he might be sick, but he needs out of this room. He starts towards the door, and he shouldn't have turned his back, he shouldn't have, and he curses himself when the baseball back smacks him clean across his fucking back and knocks him down.

The world spins, every bone in his back feels broken, and Puck has Finn pinned to the ground.

"You don't get to talk about her like that, like you actually care about her. And you know what? I didn't say anything to my uncle, and I'm not, 'cause I know once I do that he'll kill you, and you know what, Hudson? _I_ wanted to be the one to kill you." Puck slams his fist down, and pain shoots through Finn, his nose on fire, and blood rushes into his mouth, from his mouth, from his nose as Puck lands another punch.

"I'm not gonna let you fuck with my family," Puck hisses. "You're finished."

Finn tries to push him off, but Puck starts to choke him, hands like a vice gripped around Finn's throat. Finn gasps and slams his hands upwards, shoving at Puck's face, trying to dig his fingers into his neck, even as black spots appear around his vision, until finally his fingers scrap against Puck's face, and Puck's hold on him loosens for an instant —

And Finn shoves him backwards, finally shoves him off, landing a kick on his face, and as Puck howls in pain, cursing, Finn scrambles away, choking, eyes blurred, every muscle in him bruised, and he sees the bat lying abandoned on the ground by the bed. He only has an instant.

He wraps his hand around the baseball bat.

**tbc.**


	6. Chapter 6

a/n: thank you so, so much to Quinn for editing — honestly, this story is a million times better because of her!

* * *

><p>Rachel feels her phone buzz in her pocket, but she ignores the call.<p>

They spent the afternoon downtown in every chic little shop Santana could find, and now finally they've stopped for dinner, and Rachel _needs_ to talk about all of this. The moment the waitress drops off their plates and a beat of comfortable silence reigns, Rachel lets it rip.

"Santana, what do you know about my family?" she asks. Across the table from her, Santana pauses with the straw of her soda in between her teeth, and Rachel goes on, nervous. "I mean, do you know the sort of — the sort of _business_ my father does?"

"I know what people say his business is," Santana replies slowly, carefully, _too_ carefully.

Rachel looks down at her pasta. "And do you believe them?"

Santana doesn't reply right away, and that seems like an answer enough.

"This is about Finn Hudson, isn't it?" she finally asks, slight exasperation laced into her voice.

"No, it's not," Rachel says. "It's not. It's about my family. About my father. About _me._"

She doesn't know what she wants Santana to say, but she has to have _something_. Santana sighs, stabbing her pork chops with a fork, and Rachel silently implores her for an answer. They've been best friends for years, and Santana is the only friend who's never tried to turn Rachel against her family, but surely Santana can't be oblivious, right? This conversation thus far only proves that.

"Look," Santana says, "even if everything that people said about your dad were true, even if he did the things people said he did, would you love him any less?"

"No," Rachel admits. "I'll always love him, no matter what." She can't deny that.

"So why ask questions?"

Rachel shakes her head. "Because," she says, "_because_, Santana, he — he_ hurts_ people. I know he does. It's not simply something that people say. I can't believe that anymore, and I don't think you do either. He hurts people, innocent people like Matt, and. . . ." She doesn't finish. She stares down at her plate, and she can feel Santana's eyes on her. Finally, she glances up.

"Okay," Santana says, "you know that Toby Maguire movie? The one where he's a superhero? And they're remaking it with that hot, hot, _hot_ Andrew Garfield?"

"You mean _Spiderman_?" Rachel asks, a little amused despite herself.

"Yeah, that one," Santana replies, waving her fork a little as she speaks. "In that movie, Tobey Maguire's uncle tells him that with great power, comes great responsibility, right?"

Rachel nods.

"You, Rachel," Santana says, pointing her fork at Rachel, "don't have any power." She pauses, and her voice softens. "That means no one expects you to take responsibility. You _can't_ take it. It's bigger than you, Rachel. Your dad loves you, and he'll always take care of you, and you have to take that for what it's worth."

"I'm not helpless," Rachel says.

"That's not what I said," Santana replies. "Your dad isn't a saint," she goes on, "and you were bound to realize that eventually. But at the end of the day, he's still your dad, and you can't hate him because he tries his best to take care of people the way his dad taught him to."

That reminds Rachel of what Finn said about family. It's true, isn't it?

"And if this is about Finn," Santana continues, "as long as he isn't like his dad, then I don't see why you have a problem. He might be a giant _dumbass_, but —"

"Santana," Rachel says, frowning. "You know I don't like when you talk about him like that. And he isn't like his dad, but — but he's afraid he'll end up trapped, and he's afraid _I'll_ end up trapped, too. He said he loves me too much for that, too much to ignore everything anymore."

She ends feeling more hopeless than ever.

The best advice her best friend can give her is to ignore the truth.

But Santana seems to consider her, then. "You love him, too, don't you?"

"I do," Rachel answers quietly, nodding. She smiles slightly, despite everything, twirling a little pasta around her fork. She might not know how to make heads or tails of the rest of this mess, but she knows she loves Finn, and that he loves her, and that's something.

That might be everything.

Before Santana can reply, Rachel's phone goes off yet _again_. She huffs to herself and finally pulls the cell out, expecting Noah, probably with intrusive question about where she is right at this exact moment, but it's her aunt Julia, and Rachel can barely understand what she says, until —

"Oh, Rachel, oh, God, oh," Aunt Julia cries, "it's my boy, my sweet, sweet boy!"

"Aunt Julia, I don't —"

"Oh, sweetheart, he's my _baby_! My Noah!"

"I don't — Aunt Julia, what's happened? Is Noah okay? Did something happen? Is it the police?"

She can't stop the panic that starts to grip her. From across the table, Santana looks alarmed, too, as she tries to follow the conversation. But her aunt can't seem to give Rachel any explanation; she only begs Rachel to come to the hospital, please, please, come to the hospital, to NY Pres.

That's all Rachel can understand: Noah is in the hospital.

The moment Rachel repeats the words aloud, Santana is on her feet, dropping cash onto the table, ready to go, and she speeds the entire drive. Rachel doesn't even care. She wishes Santana could drive faster. How can Noah be in the hospital? What happened? She tries to keep her tears at bay.

How does everything always find a way to go from bad to worse?

Before she finds anyone else, Rachel spots Becca. The little girl spots her and barrels straight towards Rachel, hugging her tightly. Rachel kneels down to her height.

"Becca," she murmurs, kissing the top of her head and then cupping her chubby little face. "Is Noah okay?"

"I don't know," Becca answers. "Uncle Hiram says he is, Mama says he's not, and he's bleeding on the inside, that's what Uncle Leroy said, and they took him into surgery, and I'm scared, Rachel."

"I know," Rachel says, nodding and hugging her again. "Me, too."

She stands, holding Becca to her, and her aunt descends a moment later, crying and hugging Rachel and pressing a hand to Santana's cheek. She doesn't seem to make anymore sense than she did on the phone.

"They took him into surgery, my baby, and Hiram says he'll be fine, but what does he know? That's my boy, my baby boy, oh, darlings. . . ."

Santana lets Aunt Julia hug her, lets her sob into her shoulder. Rachel sees her dads turn the corner with Mr. Tanaka, and she hurries towards them, because they'll have answers, they'll know what happened, they'll know how bad off Noah is.

Even if he's in surgery, that doesn't mean he's _too_ bad off. That only means they need to fix something, and then he'll be fine, and whatever happened won't matter. Right? Right.

"Papa! Daddy!" She nearly runs the last few steps to them, Becca trailing behind her. Her daddy envelops her in a hug before anything else, but then her eyes are on Papa, who looks so unbelievably _tired_. "Is he okay? Papa, what happened?" She glances between her dads.

"He was in an accident," her papa says. "He went for a run, and he was hit by a car."

"A — a car accident?" she repeats, her mouth dry.

"But he'll be okay," her daddy assures. "He's a little battered, but he'll make it out of this. The surgery is minor, and the doctors weren't worried at all. Okay? There's nothing to worry about." He smiles at her, touching her arm lightly, and he smiles reassuringly at Becca, too.

"It'll be okay," Papa repeats, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "It'll be okay, Princess."

She tries to believe him, and she listens as he repeats the story to Santana, and she watches as he hugs her aunt and makes her sit down beside him in the worn chairs that line the wall. She forces herself to take comfort in the reassurances her daddy continues to feed her. She needs to take comfort _somehow_. She lets him usher her into a chair beside her aunt.

And they wait. They're expected to wait until he comes out okay.

Her aunt sits beside her, still sniffling; Becca wants to sit on her lap; and Santana sits on her other side and holds her hand so tightly she starts to lose feeling in her fingers.

Noah, in surgery from a car accident. But it wasn't a car accident. She knows that. Her daddy lied.

And it's his fault that Noah is here, she's positive of that, too. Because of his _business_, the family business, Noah is in the hospital. That's the truth. And, oh, God, what if he _does_ die? She clutches Becca a little closer to her, and she tries to think of an excuse to call Finn, because she needs to hear his voice right now. No, she needs to hear Noah's voice. She needs to. And she will. Soon.

She closes her eye, prays silently, opens her eyes, and sees her father murmur something to Mr. Tanaka where they stand a little ways down the hall. She wants to know what _did_ happen. She'll ask Noah. After the surgery, after he's okay again, she'll ask him. She'll find out. She will.

An hour passes, and she tries to think of the last conversation she had with him. It would've been yesterday, when he asked her to hang out. But she blew him off, because she wanted to meet up with Finn instead. Noah had been upset with her for that, and if he —

No.

She won't think that.

Her papa brings her a soda from the machine down the hall, and he offers to take her and Becca home. They both protest, and Santana says she doesn't plan on leaving, either. They'll sit still until they know Noah is okay. How can they not?

Papa seems to understand, and he brings her a snack to go with her soda.

Becca starts to fall asleep, and somebody calls Mr. Ryerson to pick her up.

It's only minutes after he's left with her asleep in his arms that this tall, giant woman with tight black curls and kind eyes walks into the waiting area, and Aunt Julia pounces. "Yes?" she asks, standing, wringing her hands. "My boy? Noah Puckerman?"

"The surgery went well," the surgeon says, smiling and nodding.

Aunt Julia clasps a hand to her mouth, smiling, and Rachel feels new air fill her lungs.

"He had some internal bleeding, but the surgery was successful, and without any further complications, I expect he'll make a full recovery. You can relax." She winks at Rachel, who laughs a little and hugs Santana.

She knew he would be okay. She knew it.

"And we can see him, then?" Aunt Julia asks.

"He's still under," the doctor explains, "and he may be out for several hours longer. He needs rest right now more than anything."

"But I can still see him, can't I?" Aunt Julia insists.

"I don't see the harm," Hiram interjects.

"Of course," the doctor agrees. "Family only for now, okay? Follow me."

Rachel glances at Santana, who smiles and tells Rachel she'll wait. Her daddy tells her he needs to talk with the insurance company while her papa talks to the hospital, but she should go on without them. He gives her another hug before her aunt tugs Rachel away so that the doctor can take them to Noah.

He looks bad.

Her breath catches as she stands in the doorway and stares at him, lying in bed, tubes in his nose and chords spiraling around him. Bruises, nasty, black, purple bruises trail down his face and under his hospital gown. Rachel feels tears burn her eyes, and she can only stand there as her aunt leans down to kiss Noah, to brush her hand against his face as she falls into the seat beside his bed.

She starts to murmur prayers, pressing his hand to her face, and Rachel stares.

His knuckles in both hands are swollen and bruised, and his right arm is wrapped up in a cast.

She finally steps into the room, and his bruises look even worse close up, but she sinks into the chair on the other side of his bed and hesitantly reaches out to hold his hand. She doesn't want to hurt him, even in his sleep. He might not have been in a car accident, but she knows that nothing he could have possibly done deserved this kind of beating. The thought makes her feel sick.

But he'll be okay. She repeats that to herself, and she even whispers the words to him.

His lips look chapped, so she digs through her purse until she finds the Berry Blossom chapstick. It isn't exactly his flavor, and that somehow makes her smile, even while her hands tremble as she pops off the cap and applies the chopstick to his lips. It leaves a little trace of glitter, and she wipes that away with her thumb. "There," she murmurs.

She needs to see Finn. She can't do anything for Noah now, and she really needs to see her boyfriend, to sit beside him, to cry to him while he rubs her back like she loves so much. And Noah won't be awake for several hours, that's what the doctor said. She kisses his bandaged cheek as lightly as she can, running a hand over his stupid mohawk.

"I'll be back," she whispers. "I promise."

Her aunt continues to pray, her head pressed against his hand, clasped in hers.

Rachel wipes her stray tears, takes one last look at her cousin, still so pale and so bruised and so _broken_, and then steps out in the hallway, taking a deep breath in and out to try to calm herself. She has to find Santana, and hopefully it won't take much to convince her to take her to meet up with Finn. But right before she rounds the corners, she hears their low, angry voices, and she stills.

This is about Noah, she knows, about what happened to him, about _who_ happened to him.

" — absolutely positive?" her daddy demands. "Because I'll rip him from limb to limb myself —"

"Hiram, don't lose your cool now," her papa interrupts. "This isn't something we can act on rashly. You know that. You know how this works. Before anything, we need to find out the details, and we need to try the proper channels, and _if_ those fail —"

"Fuck the proper channels!" her dad exclaims, the words somehow more furious when they come out in a whisper. "You thought the proper channels saved Luke, but I buried my baby brother less than a week later! And that's my nephew, my sister's boy, _my_ boy, dammit, in that bed down that hall. I won't let this happen again, and if I have to blast the brains out of Finn Hudson —!"

No. She touches her hand to the wall, tries to push her breath in and out, listens with black, twisted horror gasping to life inside her. _No_. That's not possible. Her father didn't say his name, because he isn't tied up in this mess, he isn't, and she knows that. She does. No.

"Hiram, you need to keep your voice down," her papa snaps. "You _cannot_ lose your head now."

Her daddy murmurs something Rachel can't hear, and then Mr. Tanaka starts to talk, voice gruff but too soft for her, and she steps a little closer.

"— good kid," Mr. Tanaka says, "and, trust me, Hiram, he wouldn't make a mistake. I know him, and the kid is as good as his old man. If Dave says that jacket belongs to the Hudson boy, then that's all the evidence we need. It's Finn Hudson. This is on him. If the bat belonged to Puck, then he probably knew where to find Hudson, knew he'd be at that motel, and he confronted him, and I say we confront him, too —"

The motel? Rachel thinks she really might be sick.

"Thank you for your opinion," her papa cuts in. "Here's mine, and mine is what matters, Ken."

"Rachel?"

She spins around, terrified, to face Santana, who stares at her curiously.

"I'm ready to go," Rachel says. "I need to go."

"But Puck is okay, isn't he?" Santana asks. She isn't blind to the terror that surely covers Rachel.

"Yes," Rachel says, nodding. "But, please, let's leave. Please."

Santana doesn't ask any more questions, not as she and Rachel leave, and when Mr. Tanaka sees them and stops them, it's Santana who assures them all that she and Rachel will simply head over to her house, and they'll spend the rest of the day over there. Rachel doesn't say anything, not to them, not to Santana, not until Santana pulls the SUV into the giant three car garage at her house.

"You're freaked," she says quietly, turning the ignition off. "He looked that bad?"

"He looked bad," Rachel replies. "But it's . . . it wasn't a car accident, Santana. It was what we talked about earlier. It was the family business." She leans her head back in the seat. "I think it was, anyway. And somehow it involved Finn. My Finn. I heard my dads talking with Mr. Tanaka."

She closes her eyes, trying not to cry.

"Oh, Rachel," Santana murmurs. "Come on. Come inside. I'll make you some chocolate milk."

Santana ushers her inside, and she has her sit down at the kitchen table. Rachel feels as if she's back at the hospital, the life of a boy she loves on the line, and she tells Santana exactly what she overheard. "And it must be true, San, it must be," she says, crying, "because it was a _motel_, probably the same motel we made up in, and —"

"I'm sorry, Rachel," Santana murmurs, sitting beside her and stroking her hair. "I'm so sorry."

"It's — how could he do that? How could he hurt Noah? He tried to kill him — he nearly did! Or is that crazy? I don't want to believe it, and maybe even if he had some part, maybe there is some explanation. There could be, right?"

Santana stares at her, and Rachel waits for Santana to tell her no.

"Yes," Santana murmurs. She smiles softly. "You don't know his role, and it could have been innocent. Finn isn't the one that went to a motel room where Puck was. He didn't bring a baseball bat. And you don't even know if the motel room is _the_ motel room, or what kind of evidence your dads apparently have. You have no idea what happened, Rachel, and . . . and as much as I hate to admit this, you could be right. Finn could be totally innocent."

"I . . . you really think so? It would make sense if it was a fight with Finn. Because if Noah found out about, he would've wanted to confront Finn, but that would mean —"

"But that would mean that Puck attacked Finn, not the other way around," Santana says. "You told me that Finn didn't want you to end up trapped in this. I don't want you trapped, either, and I know Puck is. God, I love that asshole, but I know the things he does, Rachel."

Rachel stares at her, and Santana simply stares back, the truth of her words shining in her eyes.

"It was still Noah who ended up in the hospital," Rachel whispers, and she doesn't know what to believe, but she knows what Noah looked like, "beaten so terribly I could barely see his face through the bruises," she goes on. And if Finn did that to him, then how . . . ?

"I know," Santana murmurs. "But you can't blame Finn yet. You should talk to him first."

She pauses, and Rachel really wants her to have all the answers.

"Look, I'm not his biggest fan, you know that," Santana says. "I've never pretended to be. But, Rachel, the way you talk about him, our conversation just earlier today — I can see how much you love him by the look on your face when you even say his name." She pauses, her eyes so unusually soft, voice so affectionate. "And that's — that's not that common, Rach. Trust me. It's not. And you can't let that go easily. So don't abandon him yet.

"Talk to him. Call him. Ask him to come here to talk."

"Yeah?" Rachel says.

Santana nods, and she takes Rachel's purse, and she pulls her bedazzled phone out. "Here."

"It doesn't seem like him," Rachel says, "to hurt Noah like that. It's not like Finn."

"No, not according to you," Santana agrees. "And I want to believe you. So call him." She smiles.

He doesn't pick up when she calls, though.

She calls again, and again, and again, and on her fourth call he _finally_ answers. "Rachel," he says.

He sounds so broken, and worry crawls up her throat, nearly choking her. He knows what happened to Noah. He must. He has to. He wouldn't sound that way if he didn't. It was the same motel room she left Finn in, and it was Finn who Noah fought with, just like Mr. Tanaka said.

But there still might be an explanation, right? She has to believe that. He might have had a role in this, but he could still have an explanation, and she won't give up on that yet. She looks at Santana, who nods encouragingly at her.

"I'm at Santana's house," she says. "I want to see you, but if I go anywhere — but I can't. You can come here, though." He doesn't respond immediately. "Finn?"

"Okay," he says, "if you want me to." And there's a little hope in his voice now. She wants to take some hope of her own in that. She assures him that she does want him to come. "I'll — I'm on my way," he goes on. "I'll be there soon." He hangs up before she can reply.

She looks at Santana. "He was there, I know he was. But he's on his way. To talk."

Santana nods. "Good. And if he is responsible for what happened, I'll kick him out. Count on it."

Rachel smiles. "Okay."

"Chocolate milk?"

"Yes, please."

Santana starts to move around the kitchen, pulling out cups and milk from the fridge and cocoa from the cabinet as Rachel stares down at her phone. She feels like she should check on Noah, but all she can think about right now is Finn. Is that wrong? But Noah will be okay. And Finn —

She offers to help Santana, who tells her she can make chocolate milk like a boss without assistance. Rachel nods, and she goes to the bathroom. She splashes cold water on her face, because it seems like it might help, right?

But it doesn't.

Back in the kitchen, Santana sets a mug down in front of her, and Rachel takes a sip.

She nearly spits the chocolate milk out a second later.

"Santana," she says, eyes flickering from her mug to her friend, "this milk tastes like alcohol."

"You really think I put alcohol in your chocolate milk?" Santana asks, raising her eyebrow.

"I — the milk might be bad, but —"

"Because I did," Santana says, smirking slightly. "You could use it, trust me."

Rachel shakes her head, eyes the poisoned milk, and then takes another sip. Moments later, someone knocks on the back door. Finn. He must really have drive _straight_ here. Rachel glances at Santana, who glances at the door, and then she offers Rachel a small nod.

Finn looks nervous when Rachel answers the door.

He stands with his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes downcast, his shoulders turned inward. He glances at her for an instant and then focuses on the floor again. "Hey," he greets. His nose looks broken, and bruises circle his neck, as if somebody choked him. Her stomach clenches.

"Are you —?" he starts, eyes nervously darting to her again.

"Yes, hi," she breathes, stepping back and holding open the door. "Come in." He does, and she closes the door, and then she faces him. She doesn't know what to say, though, because the evidence is on his face. But that doesn't _really_ prove anything, does it? And, honestly, she wants more than anything to have him wrap his arms around her and cuddle her against his chest. She wants to breathe in his stupid boy scent, and —

"I guess Puck did a number on you, didn't he?" Santana says, looking Finn up and down.

Rachel gapes and turns to glare at Santana. Then the housekeeper, Mrs. Jackson, walks into the room. "Oh!" she says, surprised, and she stares at Finn, her eyes widening slightly. Rachel likes Mrs. Jackson, even if Santana doesn't, but she has no idea what to say to the woman now.

"This is a friend of ours," Santana jumps in quickly. "He goes to school with us. We have a project. Let's go, kids. My room has all the supplies. We'll need some privacy, Mrs. Jack!" And she's already started down the hall as Mrs. Jackson nods, smiling slightly at Rachel.

Finn looks at her, too, as if unsure what to do, and she starts to reach for his hand only to change her mind. She swings her hand into her walk and nods at him as she follows Santana, and he follows her. The tension simply builds as they cross the hall, take the stairs, and end up in the large, light green bedroom room that Rachel has spent as much time in as her own.

It's quiet, then, as they all stand awkwardly.

Santana finally opens her mouth, and Rachel expects her to start in on Finn, but she doesn't. "I'll give you two some privacy, okay?" she says. Rachel nods, and Finn does, too, and a moment later Santana has left, the door shutting behind her.

"You — you and Noah did fight, didn't you?" Rachel finally asks.

He nods. He won't look at her. "Right after you left, he showed up at the hotel," he murmurs.

"And you sent him to the hospital?" she asks, barely able to force the words out of her mouth.

But his eyes fly to hers, and he shakes his head, looking as if he might cry. "No," he says. "I know he got beat really bad, got beat unconscious, I talked to Sam, and he told me it was all over the news, but — but no. That's not how it happened, that's not what I — I swear, Rachel —" He stops, pressing his lips together, and she knows he isn't the villain.

She nods. "Okay. Tell me how it did happen. Here — sit down."

He sits on the edge of the bed, and she sits on the desk chair, turned to face him. If she shifted even a little, her knees would brush his. But she doesn't move. And he doesn't say anything.

"Finn," she starts uncertainly.

"He came to the motel room," he says. "He just stormed right in and knocked me against the wall with a baseball bat. He must've — must've followed you there and waited outside while we talked. I don't know how else. . . . He probably even let the air out of my tire. It'd make sense. But he — he came in, and he was so pissed, and I —" He shakes his head, stopping again.

"And what?" Rachel encourages quietly, nervously, fearfully.

"And . . . we fought. He hit me, I hit him, and — but I tried to talk to him. I know that he loves you, and I wanted him to know that I love you, too, and it didn't have to be like this. But he wouldn't listen. He was so mad, and —" He cuts himself off abruptly, and he _finally_ looks at her.

He looks so desperate and lost and guilty, and it all makes her _hurt_.

"He shouldn't have come after you," she whispers.

His eyes drop to the floor once more. "I shouldn't have . . . it was as much my fault as his." He stops yet again, and she waits, unsure what to do, what to say, what even to think. "I tried to leave," he continues at last, "and he knocked me down, choked me, and — and I managed to grab the baseball bat, and — I hit him, Rachel.

"I hit him so hard, right across the legs to knock him down, and it — he, like, _cracked_."

She sees his chin tremble, and she tries to catch his eye, but she can't. He won't let her.

"I . . . I freaked. I dropped the bat, and I — I — I tried to call the hospital. 911, I mean. But he stopped me, said to drop the phone, to finish this the right way, and I just — I ran, Rachel. I just ran. I left him there. But he wasn't unconscious!" His eyes snap to hers again.

His face and his voice and his hands, knuckles white as he grips his knees, all plead with her.

"He was still okay," he says, stumbling over the words. "I mean, I'd hurt him, I had, but he wasn't unconscious. I didn't beat him that bad! I didn't, I swear. I wouldn't have left him like that, I wouldn't! I'm not like that, Rachel, I wouldn't do that, I —!"

"I know," she breaks in, nodding furiously, because she does, because he wouldn't, because she only has to look at him in this moment, his face so sad and desperate and afraid and guilty, to know he isn't like his father, or like her father. He's Finn, and he's better than all of them.

"I know you wouldn't," she assures, "I know." She covers his hands with hers, holding his gaze, nodding. "I know, Finn. I know. I do."

"It was somebody else, Rachel," he goes on. "It wasn't me. After I left, somebody else —"

"I believe you," she says firmly. "You're not like that. I know. You might have fought him, but you didn't land him in the hospital. He'll survive this, and as soon as he wakes up he'll prove your innocence, whether he wants to or not. I'll talk to him." She tries not to cry, wiping hastily at the tears that spring free anyway, but she doesn't let her gaze leave his. "I believe you," she repeats.

"But I . . . I left him there. He was conscious, but he — I just left him there."

He seems to choke on his own words, and he presses his palms into his eyes, shoulders shaking, and her heart flutters anxiously. She feels trapped and useless, unable to help him. She kneels down in front of him, grasping his wrists and tugging his hands from his face.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs. He tilts his head up, his whole face tight, lips pressed white, and she knows he doesn't want to cry in front of her. "I didn't — I don't — I'm not my father, Rachel."

"No," she says, "you're not. You're not even a little like him."

He finally looks at her, eyes glossy, and she shakes her head at him. "You stopped yourself."

"But I nearly —"

"No. You stopped yourself. And you didn't want to hurt him to start with. You're not responsible for what happened. You stopped yourself." She pauses, hoping her words sink in. "I love you," she tells him. "For that, and for so much more, Finn Hudson."

His jaw clenches, and he looks away from her, lashes wet, the first daring tear pooling under his eye. She brushes the tear away, skimming her thumb over his face, over his red, swollen nose, and the angry, purple marks on his neck. She surges forward to kiss his nose as gently as she can, and when she draws back, his eyes are on her, a question in his gaze.

She answers with another kiss to the side of his nose, and she trails kisses down his cheek and to his neck, letting her lips linger against the bruises. His wrists are still caught in her grasp, but he wraps his hands around her forearms, squeezing tightly.

"It wasn't your fault. You haven't done anything wrong. All along, you've done it all right, Finn."

She kisses him, and then she frees his arms, and he hugs her, letting her bury her face in his neck as he rocks slightly, hot tears splattering into her hair. "I love you," he whispers.

"I know. I love you, too. I love you so much, and I always will. Forever."

She pulls back, offering him a tentative smile. She gently runs her finger over the bridge of his nose.

"It's not that bad," he tells her, voice thick.

"It looks bad," she replies softly. "I can get some ice for you."

He shakes his head, even as his hand touches her hair hesitantly, fingers flitting over a few strands.

"You really forgive me?" he asks, eyes red from tears he still doesn't want to cry, and he looks so vulnerable in that moment that her heart swells, and she smiles at him, at her sweet, innocent, wonderful Finn Hudson.

"Even if there _were_ something to forgive," she says, "I always would, because you're _you_. And me? I'm yours. Always. This here?" She takes his hand and presses it over her heart to feel the beat. "My heart? It beats for you, and for all the goodness in you." She smiles.

He manages half a smile, too, and his thumb slides over the skin above her blouse before his hand cups her breast. His eyes dart up from his hand to her face, eyes a little less broken and a little more mischievous, and her smile widens. He laughs slightly and pulls his hand back.

She moves to sit on the bed beside him, and she sees the momentary lightness leave him.

"Puck really will be okay?" he asks quietly.

"The doctors said he would be," she says. "And maybe this will make him see that he doesn't want this life anymore than we do. And if it doesn't, then I'll help him see that. I will."

"I'll help, too," he volunteers. She has to kiss him for that. She means the kiss to be short and sweet, but his mouth opens under hers, and his hand cups the back of her head, and that secret, special warmth flushes her skin, coiling in her stomach and circling her lungs so that her breath comes out shorter.

She finally breaks away, letting his hot breath wash over her as she leans her forehead against his for a moment before he wraps her up in another hug. She smiles into his shoulder, and then — and then her eyes widen slightly, because she knows what pokes against her stomach, and the warmth inside her grows into an entirely new creature.

Santana is right downstairs, and this is her house, her bedroom, but that doesn't matter. Rachel is here with Finn, here and in love with him and unafraid — that's what matters.

He pulls back, starting to stand, and she catches him by the sleeve, gazing up at him.

"I know that someday everything will work out, and we won't have murders and wars and all this hate trying to tear us apart. But I don't know when that someday will come, and I want — before we go back into the real world, I want that, Finn."

"I don't. . . ."

She stands and kisses him, more insistent this time, hands tight on his shoulders. She steers him back towards the bed. He almost falls backwards but steadies himself with his hands on her waist. Moments later, she straddles his lap and moves his hands up from her waist to her breasts. His kisses go slightly slack as he squeezes them gently.

She moves her own hands to the buttons of his shirt.

His hands are on her wrists in an instant. "Rachel?"

"I want to," she says.

"You want to?" The words sound strained.

And somehow that makes her smile. "I want to make love," she whispers.

She can see him swallow. "You wanna have sex?"

"I think it's prettier to say make love," she replies softly, pinking a little, and she leans forward to kiss him quickly. "But, yes, Finn, however you say it. I want this with you. I want everything with you, I want forever with you, and I want this right now with you."

"But . . . but after everything that happened, that I did —"

"You still don't believe me, Finn?" she says. "Listen to me. _I forgive you_." She cups his face and runs her thumbs softly against his temples. "Is there anything I could do that would make you hate me, really, truly hate me?" she asks.

He shakes his head.

"Then why won't you believe that there's nothing you can do that'll make me hate you?" she asks. "You really think you love me more than I love you?" He doesn't reply, and she goes on. "There's no more or less to love, Finn. It just is. And I love you. I just do."

She kisses him, his hands grasp her waist, fingers splaying out, and she arches against him.

He turns, laying her out on the bed, and she tugs on his shirt. He pulls back, standing unsteadily and pulling both his shirt and undershirt up over his head and tossing them aside. Her own guilt seizes her when she sees the bruises that mar his stomach and his chest.

But he looks back at her, eyes tentative, and she catches his gaze, holds it in hers a beat, and then pulls her own shirt up over her head. She smiles again, giggling when his eyes go straight for her breasts and then back up to her fast, guilty. He's adorable. "Come on," she murmurs.

He crawls back onto the bed and back onto her, and she traces her hands over his back as he kisses his way to the valley between her breasts. He pulls her bra straps down before his hands slide around her back to try to unclasp her bra. But when he can't seem to, he isn't deterred: he only drags the bra down enough to bare her breasts.

Her amusement goes up in smoke when he starts to suck on her breast, and she feels his teeth and then his tongue, and she digs her fingers into his hair and arches up into his mouth.

She finally drags him back up to kiss her, and her whole world becomes hazy. She loves him so much, so, so much, and he's all she knows. He draws back, though, and she blinks at him, trying to catch her breath.

"I love you," he says.

"I know," she murmurs.

"I love the way you sing, and the way you have all these big huge dreams that you don't ever doubt." She can feel his heart racing, or maybe that's hers, but she really doesn't care. "I love how much you read, and the way you like to tell me about every single chapter of every single book, and I love how you — how you make this face when you smell something gross and —"

He scrambles up and away, balancing on his knees, and she misses his warmth and his weight.

She props herself up on her elbows, even as he goes on, the words so warm and loved on his tongue. "— and I love how nothing is too much for you, nothing is impossible, and even when you're knocked down, you're never knocked out. You believe so much in — in goodness, in mine, in us, in everything that you care about, and I love that. I love you. You — you have to know that."

"I do," she whispers. "Nobody in the world has ever made me feel as loved as you do."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she breathes, smiling, and he smiles, too, and he kisses her again. His hands move from her shoulder to her breasts, tweaking and squeezing before sliding down her stomach and to her skirt. He traces the edge, and she nods, murmuring further assent into their kiss. She has to help him find the zipper, and his hands shake too much even too unbutton his own jeans. Before long, though, even his boxers are off. His fingers burn against her thighs as he pulls down her underwear.

For a moment, she's a little terrified at the sight of how _much_ of him there is.

And then she laughs at the sight of him scrambling off the bed, completely naked, to retrieve a condom from his wallet, and she loves him so much, maybe even _too_ much, but then again she doesn't think it's possible to love Finn Hudson too much.

He spreads her legs, and she feels a little dizzy in the best possible way, but then he shifts slightly, turning onto his back, and he tugs on her arm, eyes searching her face. "It'll be better this way," he says. She nods, moving to straddle him again, and he runs his hands up and down her bare thighs before he links his hands with hers.

She squeezes his hand, trying to focus on his smile. Then she decides to make this happen: she sinks down, and he tears through her. She gasps, and she's never felt so full or so stretched or so _everything. _She stares at him, forcing her breath out of her lungs as she waits for the pain to recede.

"Rach, baby," he breathes.

She nods, and his hands are sweaty as they grip her ass and shift her slightly, and he groans.

"I love you," he gasps, and she moves forward, pushing herself up with her knees and bracing her hands on his shoulders. She whimpers a little as an entirely new feeling, something she can't explain, something sweet and right and _good_ spins through her, and she wants more, wants the pain to give way completely to this —

"Forever," she whispers.

"Forever," he echoes. "Promise."

They start to move together, as he holds her steady and thrusts up into her and she moves over him, and her hair sticks to her forehead, but this is good, this is so good, and she didn't know it would be this kind of good. And the look in his eyes as he stares up at her, his mouth a little open, his eyes a little adoring.

"Rach, are you — are you —?" His voice sounds a little wild now, and his hands burn her waist as she starts to burn from the inside out, and she tries to lean down to kiss him, and the angle changes and her breasts brush against his chest and his lips are hot against hers and — and —

"_Rachel_!"

And her name on his lips, strangled and sweet, sends her over the edge.

The entire world feels hot and full and _Finn_ and —

She slumps against him, mind hazy, heart on fire, and — even through the condom — she feels him pulsing into her, feels him like never before as he thrusts himself soft. Then they're boneless against each other, sweating. It's too hot like this, but she doesn't care. "Perfect," he mutters. "You're perfect."

She smiles, and they both turn their heads with the same thought, kissing, and his hand gently brushes her breast again before he wraps his arms around her. She lies against him, her cheek pressed to his, their chests slowing down pressed and heaving together, sweaty legs tangled.

His hand brushes lazily against her hair.

"I'm not perfect," she whispers to him. "But we're perfect."

He kisses her again, soft and simple and sweet, the kiss a _yes_, and _I know, _a perfect _I love you, too_.

And he finally pulls away, still facing her as he lies on his side. She moves to face him, touching the tips of her fingers to his knuckles. He curls his fingers around hers, smiling.

She wants to stay like this forever, but she knows they can't. She can see the sleepiness that dawns in his gaze, even as his eyes flutter closed. She knows they've only a few hours more before the real world catches up and drags them back in.

But she also knows they'll find this place again.

Or, better yet, they'll make this place home, one way or another.

**tbc**.


	7. Chapter 7

a/n: again, thanks to Quinn for editing! There are two more chapters and an epilogue still to come, and hopefully they'll be up soon! :)

* * *

><p>"I think if we talk to them, we might be able to make a difference," she says.<p>

He runs his thumbs over her knuckles, their finger still barely intertwined, and he can't bring himself to keep her gaze, because he knows that they _can't_ make a difference. She wants him to try to talk to his dad? There isn't a single thing he could say to that man that would help.

"I'll tell him what really happened to Noah," Rachel says. "I'll tell him about us, and that you're completely innocent. It won't fix everything, but it's a start, right?"

"It's a start," he agrees, "but even if your dad accepts our relationship and doesn't try to blame me, what about my dad? I . . . he won't listen to anything I say. He hates your dad so much, and he's so sure he's right, and. . . ." He shakes his head.

"He loves you, doesn't he?" she asks quietly, hand moving to touch the side of his face, to tuck his hair needlessly behind his ear. "I mean, you're his son. He must love you."

"I think he loves who he wants me to be," Finn says.

"_I_ love you for who you are," she says, smiling, and he leans forward to kiss her. She giggles into his mouth, hand sliding from his face to his shoulder. "And we can figure this out, I know." She squeals suddenly when he wraps an arm around her waist and tugs her flush against him.

"I know," he says, "and I think —"

The door opens, and Santana walks in, already talking.

"Look, I tried to give you two some time to talk, but my stepdad will be home soon, and — and, oh, my god, my _bed_?" Her eyes go wide as Rachel scrambles to sit up, pulling the sheet to cover herself as she goes, but then Santana simply starts to smirk.

"I guess this means Finn isn't responsible for what happened to Puck, right?"

"I'm not," Finn says, face burning as Santana stands there, with her hand on her hip and her momentary shock faded into clear amusement. "And we just —"

"Had sex in my bed, yes, I see that." Her lips twitch. "You're lucky I'm more proud than pissed. But finish up, okay? Because my stepdad will be home soon, and you can stick around, Rach, but Hudson might need to find another bed to heist."

He nods stupidly, and she shouts "five minutes!" as she slams the door shut behind herself.

Finn stares at the door for a moment, still pretty shocked himself, before he looks at Rachel, who suddenly starts to laugh, pressing her face against her shoulder. He kisses the top of her head, amused. Santana must like him now. That's something, at least. "Come on," he says.

They dress quickly and quietly, and he tries not to watch her, 'cause it'd make him want to stop her.

And then she sits primly on the edge of the bed, smoothing her hair down, and he smiles at her as he pulls his shirt on. She makes him bend down so that she can smooth _his_ hair down. Then she takes his hands, letting out a deep breath. "I'll talk to my dad," she says. "And you talk to yours."

"But what do I say?"

"You tell him everything. You already told him what Karofsky did, and we have to trust that the police will use that information properly, that they'll protect Kurt as a witness and question Karofsky, and our part in that is finished. And you'll tell your father about us, and you'll tell him about what happened to Noah, and you'll try to make him see reason about my family. If he doesn't, then at least we tried, right? And I'll talk to my dad. I'll get to the bottom of . . . of everything."

She makes everything sound so simple.

He nods. "Yeah. Okay. I'll call you tonight?"

"Yes, please," she replies, and she surges up on her tiptoes, waiting.

He smiles, kisses her quickly, and lets her steer him out of the room.

Santana clearly wants to ask questions, but she must wait until Finn leaves. He feels out of place in this neighborhood, filled to the brim with large, brick houses that his father couldn't afford, even as the chief of police, in a million years. But it only takes a few minutes to make his way back onto the highway. He still can't believe what happened, not any of it.

Rachel forgives him, believes him, tells him she loves him, and then suddenly Puck tries to _kill_ him, and Finn nearly kills him. He definitely broke his leg, and then he ran, left his car with the flat tire, just ran, and that seems so stupid now, just to do that. It was stupid.

It's the reason his dad already knows what happened.

He must already know, even if Finn hasn't spoken to him yet.

Finn didn't tell Rachel, but she didn't ask.

It went like this. He ran, only to realise, half a mile down the street from the motel, that he couldn't just walk away. He needed to pull his act together. He needed to help Puck, and he needed to fix his tire and take his car and not _freak out_. But when he ran back there, a bruised, bloody sweaty mess by then, he found the motel room marked off with police tape but empty, his car gone.

The police came? His _dad_ came? But they're gone now. And what about Puck? And the car?

He walked back to the end of the block and called Sam for a ride.

His friend asked a lot of questions, and he seemed stunned at every answer that Finn produced, even as he told Finn that what had happened to Puck was all over the news — how he had been found nearly dead, abandoned in a motel room, and was taken to the hospital.

"You did that?" Sam exclaims.

But Finn didn't, and he told Sam that, and they tried to put together who might have as Sam drove Finn home. It was at home that he found his car, tire changed, waiting there as if he'd never driven to the motel in the first place. Finn put the pieces together, and it makes sense, mostly.

He called 911 and hung up an instant later, but if you call, then they're on the way.

And his father must have arrived at the scene, must have found Puck almost dead, must have thought Finn was to blame when he saw his car, and must have covered for him, for his son. Finn doesn't need to talk to him to know that's what happened.

Then, like — like a _miracle_, Rachel called him and gave him her forgiveness and so much more.

But what about now? She wanted him to talk to his dad. He would, because he _did_ need to, but it was one thing to hint to Sam about his secret relationship as he told him about his fight with Puck, it was another thing entirely to come clean to his dad, who he had to convince that he really loved Rachel and that he was _not_ responsible for almost killing Puck.

The part that really makes Finn sick, though, is that as angry as his dad will be about Rachel, he probably isn't pissed at all at the thought that Finn nearly killed Puck. He'll probably be pissed when he learns that Finn didn't finish the job, and that someone else is involved somehow.

No.

He won't let himself suspect that yet. He won't let himself think of his dad as _that_ messed up, not yet. He takes the exit off the highway and pulls up to a stop sign, closing his eyes for a moment.

Rachel loves him. They're still together. They'll _always_ be together, somehow, someway.

He tries to calm himself down with that thought, only to panic again when he nears his house and starts as he sees the cars that line the street and block his driveway. He realizes what he forgot: weeks ago, his parents had volunteered to host a big barbecue for the police department today, and _oh, fuck_, will this day never end?

It takes him way too long to find a place to park, and he has to talk to half a dozen people who recognize him before he even walks into his own house. He sees his mom, talking with a whole group of people, and he decides to escape upstairs to his room. He can't deal with this party.

That conversation with his dad will have to wait until tomorrow. Rachel will understand.

But as he reaches the top of the stairs, that plan goes to shit.

"Finn," his dad says from the bottom of the stairs, voice low. Finn glances back, an excuse that his stomach hurts already on its way out of his mouth, but his father climbs the stairs two at a time before Finn can say a word. "Let's talk, son." He passes Finn and walks to the end of the hall.

Finn follows silently, watching his dad down the rest of his drink before he eyes Finn.

"I had Marty change the tire and take your car home," he says.

"I came back for it," Finn whispers. It's all he can think to say, his mind suddenly blank.

"You fought with Puckerman," his father says, face blank, eyes black.

"I . . . I met a friend at the hotel," Finn stutters. He doesn't know how much to tell him, but his father stands so close, his face so unreadable, and he has to say _something_, and — "And after my friend left, Puck — Puckerman — he just showed up —"

"With a baseball bat?" his dad breaks in.

Finn nods. "I tried to talk to him —"

"But you ended up with his own bat in your hand," his dad says. It's not a question.

"I —"

"And then you left his bat and your coat in the room, and your car parked outside." Abruptly, his dad shoves him back against the wall, standing menacingly close to Finn, so close that Finn can smell the scotch on his breath. "Are you stupid, kid?" his dad growls.

He doesn't give Finn the chance to answer.

"Listen to me," his father goes on. "I covered your ass. The car is home, and nobody who arrived at the scene with me will say a word about it. My boys are loyal. But I didn't notice the jacket you left in the bathroom, not 'till the reporters who came after me shot a picture of it, and then it was too late for me to make it disappear." He pauses. "There's ways to deal with that, and we will. Here's what matters: if you want to pull this shit, Finn, you better pull it _right_, you understand me?"

"Um . . . " He swallows thickly. "Yes."

His dad steps back.

"But I didn't — I didn't just leave Puckerman messed up like that," Finn says.

He needs to say that. He needs his dad to know that Finn isn't a part of this war on the Berrys. He needs his dad to know that Finn isn't like him. He needs to make that clear, _especially_ to his dad.

"I know," his dad replies calmly. "You ran. You lost your balls, that's what you did. But we're gonna work on that, kid." He claps Finn on the shoulder.

Finn frowns, confusion starting to well up in him.

"Before anything else, though, you're gonna tell me the whole story," his dad continues. "I know you've held out of on your old man, you have. I know, yes, sir, I do. I don't know why, and I don't care why, not now. You gotta come clean now, Finn. You start with that hotel."

He jabs Finn in the shoulder with his thumb. "Tell me everything, son."

Finn stares at him, shaking his head, unsure. "I don't . . . "

"How'd Puckerman know to find you there?" his dad presses. "Who'd you meet? Huh? Who's this friend? Kurt Hummel, maybe? I'm not a fool, Finn. Your old man isn't a fool. And I know you've held out on me for weeks now. So spill, kid."

"It was Rachel," Finn says. He has to. This seems so wrong, but Rachel is the person who _told_ him that he should tell his dad everything, that he should at least try to make everything right.

"Rachel?" his dad repeats, lips thinning.

Finn nods. "Rachel Berry. It's not that I befriended her like you wanted me to. I didn't — that's not what it's about." He pauses, takes a deep breath, and forces the admission out. "I'm in love with her," he says. "She — we met at the Halloween dance, and I didn't know who she was, but when I found out, I just . . . I didn't care. I liked her. I like her. I _love_ her. And we're together."

There.

It's quiet.

"You and Rachel Berry?" his dad murmurs.

Finn only nods again.

"You're _in love_ with her, huh?" And his serious face breaks as he snorts, lifts his glass —only to remember that it's empty, and sighs. "You're eighteen, kid. You wouldn't know love from porn, if you tried. You listen to your old man, okay? Anybody related to Hiram Berry is trouble, and if you want to fuck her, fine, but you can't let her manipulate you. They do that, women. And you can't let her, you hear? I know, kid. I know."

"Rachel's not . . ." Finn shakes his head, disappointment surging up, because maybe a part of him had hoped that this _would_ work, would help fix things, although how, what, he didn't know, but now it's clear that his dad doesn't give a damn how Finn _feels_ about Rachel or what he thinks.

"I see what this is all about," his dad says. "This girl's already messed with your head, hasn't she? If you weren't with her, you would've been able to shut Puckerman up, and I wouldn't have had to for you." He shakes his head. "You see, kid? That girl messed with your head. Hell, maybe you wouldn't have even left your fucking car if you weren't turned soft by some pussy, huh? You can't let that happen again. Okay?"

It takes Finn a minute to catch up, to push past all the shit his dad spews and —

"You — you beat up Puck?" he breathes.

"I finished what you started," his father says. "You're damn right I did. And I covered your tracks, just like I told you. I'm your old man. It's what I do. I made sure that if Anderson decided to sniff around, he wouldn't find a damn thing that'd point to you. But I can't clean up all your messes."

"You beat Puck unconscious!" Finn says.

"Never said I didn't," his dad snaps. "Something the matter? You messing with _me_, kid?"

"You nearly killed him."

"You forget that he nearly killed _you_?' his dad exclaims. "This is about the girl, isn't it? It is. Damn, it is. Listen to me, Finn, whatever she's told you, however she's sucked you into her little world, you remember that she's a mob princess through and through, and she doesn't give two shits about you, and if you let her make an ass out of you —"

"No," Finn says, his anger growing. "You have no idea what you're talking about. It's not like that. _She_'s not like that! She doesn't even really know the stuff her dad does, or she didn't, not until I made her admit it all to herself, and she wants this whole stupid war to end, just like I do. She doesn't want to become her father — and I don't want to become mine! _God_, Dad! I don't want a part in this stupid war, and you can't just drag me in!"

He doesn't mean to shout it all like that.

His dad stares at him, and then he steps closer to Finn, trapping him against the wall.

"I don't have to drag you in," his dad breathes. "You're already in. You're in, or you're dead, because no matter what you wanna say about me, you're still my son, and you still have a target on your back. Hiram Berry will still wanna kill you, just like his nephew, who nearly did. And as long as you don't have the guts to fight back, I'll fight for you. But you better get your act together soon, kid, or we're gonna have a problem."

And Finn shoves his father back.

"Hiram Berry is an asshole, and he's responsible for murdering Matt, and for a lot worse," Finn says. "But Rachel's not her dad. And I'm not gonna let you take her down with him."

He starts to walk away, to go downstairs, to get out of the house, but he doesn't take a single step before his dad yanks him back by his arm and slams him against the wall, and his bruises cry out in pain, and Finn doubles over as his father slams his head back against the wall.

"You don't talk to me like that!" he snarls, voice still slow, the party still loud and cheery downstairs. "You need me to wash that mouth out, eh?"

His dad grabs him around the neck, shoving him forward, into the bathroom, and Finn tries to overpower him, but he already feels so shitty, and his dad's meaty hands are tight and hot. Before Finn can process anything, his knees bang against the cold, hard bathroom tiles, and he chokes on a bar of soap shoved into his mouth.

He sputters as his dad claps his hand over his mouth and traps the soap inside, choking, his eyes watering, until he finally stumbles backwards, away from his dad. The soap falls out and he spits and chokes and takes a few ragged breaths. He feels seven years old again, helpless and stupid as his dad glowers down at him.

"You and that little slut are done," his dad snaps. "I'm not gonna let Hiram Berry manipulate me because the moment his daughter spreads her legs my son runs after him like some fucking dog. I have a witness against him, which means I can take him to court, which means when he gets off, I'll know where he is, I'll know where his car is, and I'll know how to bring him the fuck down."

He steps forward, closer, eyes flaming. "You're not gonna mess that up. You're in this with me until I see Hiram Berry dead, and you better pull your act together, or, hell, next time you fuck up, I'll let Jack Anderson haul your ass into jail, you hear me?"

Silent, Finn stares up at him, and his father glares back down, and he feels sick and angry and terrified, wiping the spit and the soap off his chin with a trembling hand, still unable to speak.

And his dad leaves, and Finn wants to cry and wants to scream and wants out of this house. He needs to talk to Rachel, because his father is insane, is the same man who bullied him a kid, is the same man who shamelessly admitted to killing a man, and he'll never listen to reason.

He knows what he knows, he believes what he believes, and this war is his life.

Stomach rolling, Finn pushes himself to his feet, turning on the sink, cupping his hands under the faucet, splashing the water into his mouth. But bits of soap are caught in his teeth, and his bruised back still stings from the recent blows, and he can't think properly.

He can't go downstairs and deal with all those people. He can't call Rachel, not yet. He can't talk to any of his friends, because what can Sam or Mike possibly do for him? Rachel made everything seem so easy, as if they would talk to their dads and it would all work out, and she never told him what the backup plan was, and he needs the backup plan.

He needs out.

He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and starts down the hall, ready to make a beeline out of the house, but he doesn't go far at all, barely makes it down the stairs, even, before he collides with someone else.

"Finn?"

It's Kurt, eyes wide with concern.

Finn doesn't know where Kurt stands in any of this anymore, doesn't know if his dad has talked to him, doesn't know if Kurt is under any sort of protection or what, but he can't help himself.

"I need your help," he says.

And Kurt nods.

* * *

><p>She finds them in the kitchen, eating from a tub of ice cream.<p>

"Moose Tracks?" her papa offers, smiling softly.

She nods, and then she laughs as her papa swings her up and effortlessly sets her on the counter as her daddy finds a spoon for her. She digs in, ignoring them while they tease her for searching out the peanut butter cups. But then her daddy brushes a hand over her hair, his eyes catching hers. "You aren't still worried, are you?" he asks.

"Noah will be fine," Papa adds.

Rachel nods. "I know. It was just hard to see him like that."

Her daddy simply kisses her temple as her papa repeats that Noah will be fine. She nods, basking in the comfortable silence for a moment. Then she steels herself to say something. She _needs_ to say something. She can't avoid this. She finds another peanut butter cup and then takes a deep breath.

"He wasn't hit by a car," she says.

Her fathers both frown. "Sweetheart," her papa begins.

"No," she says. "I know. I already talked to Finn."

And she can _feel_ her daddy stiffen beside her, but she goes on, staring down at the tub of ice cream, determined not to let them deter her with sweet words and reassuring promises.

She can't let them lie to her and try to coddle her anymore.

"He told me that he and Noah fought," she goes on, "that Noah came looking for Finn, brought a baseball bat, and _attacked_ him. They fought, but Finn ran when he could. He left Noah there, but he didn't leave him on the brink of death. He didn't. He swore that to me, and I believe him. And you have to believe me. Someone else is responsible."

"You talked to Finn Hudson?" her daddy says.

She finally looks up and meets his gaze — and she realizes she should have started from the beginning instead of the middle.

"Yes," she says. "I had to. I overheard you talking with Mr. Tanaka, and I heard you say that Finn was at fault. But he isn't." She starts to lose her cool. "He's not, Daddy, please, you have to believe me. He would never do something like that. I know him." She looks between her fathers, silently begging them to believe her.

"You and Finn Hudson," her daddy says.

"You're together," her papa says.

"I — I'm sorry I didn't say anything earlier, but I couldn't. I didn't tell you earlier, because — because I thought . . . I fell for him before I knew who he was. Or, I should say, who his _father_ was. Because he's not like his dad, not at all. And I — I love him."

It all comes out a little more jumbled than she wanted.

"You love him," her daddy says. It isn't a question, and before she can find a reply, he starts to shake his head, face tight. "No," he says, and he turns away, taking the ice cream with him. "No."

And she looks at her papa, who meets her gaze with broken eyes. He sighs.

"Hiram," he says.

"No, _no_, absolutely not!" her daddy abruptly snaps, spinning around to face them again. "You will not be with that boy. I can't believe you have been all this time and didn't tell me! But it doesn't matter." He takes a deep breath, and he points his spoon at her. "It's over." He looks so suddenly mad, and for a moment she feels guilty, but as he glares, her own anger starts to rise up.

"I can't believe all this time you've lied to me about what this family does," she says, and she slips off the counter to face him on own two feet, standing as tall as she possibly can. "You're responsible for what happened to Matt, and for Jesse, and for countless others, I know."

She can't back down now, not even if her voice shakes.

"And you always say bad things happen to people because of car crashes," she continues, "but those are_ lies_, I know it. I'm not the liar in this family, Daddy, I'm not. That's you."

"Rachel," her papa starts.

"I don't think so!" her daddy shouts. "You, Rachel Berry, you're _my_ daughter, and daughters answer to their fathers, not the other way around!" He steps forward, and his eyes flash, and his next words come out slowly, his voice low. "My business isn't yours," he says, "but your business is most certainly mine, and you will listen to me when I say that you will _not_ date that boy."

"I — " she begins furiously, shaking her head.

"That's the end of the conversation," he cuts her off, and he tears open the freezer, shoves the ice cream in, and slams the door shut again. But that is most certainly _not_ the end of the conversation, Rachel decides.

"I will date him!" she says. "I love him! And no matter what else you do, Daddy, no matter what kind of_ business_ you really have, you have to listen to me right now, Daddy, you have to! He isn't responsible for what happened to Noah, not really, and I won't let you try to —!"

"You have no idea what he is or isn't responsible for!" he roars.

"But I do!" she cries. "And I hate that you don't believe me! I hate that you don't trust me, or care enough about me to tell me the truth! This family isn't simply involved in insurance or real estate, and you know that, and — and you can't deny it any longer. You can't. I won't let you. I have for so long. I haven't asked questions, and I've ignored people who tried to give me the answers anyway, and I've _let_ you lie to me, but I won't anymore.."

Her eyes burn with tears, but she doesn't drop his gaze. "And I'm love with Finn Hudson. You can't change that, just like I can't change that the father I used to look up to doesn't really exist. I love Finn. And he loves me. He's never lied to me. He's never hurt anyone. He's never hurt _me_."

And she lets her tears fall, watching as his whole face seems to wobble in her vision.

"Rachel." He steps towards her, and his hands shake a little when he cups her face.

"I'm sorry," she says, choking back a sob, "but I can't pretend anymore, not about any of it."

Behind his glasses, tears fill his own eyes. "Oh, baby girl," he whispers, "I may not be the best man on this earth, but I've always tried to do right by you, my sweet, _sweet_ girl."

"You had Karofsky kill Matt," she whispers, her tears falling fast now.

"It isn't that black and white," he replies, voice breaking.

"It isn't all shades of grey either," she says, and her head hurts with all the tears as she squeezes her eyes shut and pinches her face, trying not to let the whole world spin under her. Her daddy brushes her tears aside with his thumbs, and he keeps his hold on her face, meeting her gaze the moment she lets her eyes flicker open again.

"I can't explain everything to you," he says. "I _won't _explain everything, because — because it's not something — this life, it's not what I wanted for you. I wanted to _protect_ you. I still do. That's all. I've _only_ ever wanted to protect you. To protect my family, just like my father tried to protect me. But he failed. I won't fail you. I won't."

"No, Daddy, no," she murmurs.

"Your mama walked out on me," he says, "and the police killed my brother. This — this isn't the life I'd have chosen for myself. It's not the life I want for you — but, Princess, it's the life I have."

She shakes her head, unable to speak.

He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as he speaks into her hair. "I don't want it to be the life you have," he whispers. "I'm so sorry, darling, but let me make sure it isn't your life, too, if that's all I can do for you, please let me."

And she collapses against him, letting him run his hands over her hair and cradle her against his chest. "Let me protect you," he murmurs. "Please, baby girl. Please. Let me take care of you."

She manages to wipe her tears, and her papa hands her a glass of water. As her daddy kisses her temple again, she feels herself start to calm. "Finn isn't responsible for Noah," she repeats.

"Okay," her daddy says, nodding. "Okay."

"And I — I won't leave him."

He hesitates, but her papa doesn't. "Okay," he says, and her dads glance at each other. And then her daddy nods, and he wraps her up in another hug, echoing the word. "Okay."

This doesn't fix anything, she knows that. But she loves her dad so much, loves both her fathers more than anything. She wouldn't trade them for the world, even if she hates that her daddy does what he does. And she knows even as he repeats "Okay" into her ear that everything isn't really okay now, but she won't abandon her daddy now, won't love him any less for the truth.

If he can accept Finn, then she'll accept the mistakes he might've made.

And maybe somehow they can fix everything _together_.

* * *

><p>He calls her when Kurt stops for gas.<p>

But she doesn't pick up. He leaves a message, though, telling her that he talked to his dad, and he just really needs to talk to her now. "I think I have a plan for how we can fix everything," he says. "It's something that my dad said to me. And Kurt can help."

He doesn't want to tell everything to her voicemail, so he waits for her to return his call. Kurt drives him to talk to Mike and Sam at this burger place that Mike loves. Finn fills them both in on everything from start to finish, and then Kurt says he thinks that as soon as Rachel agrees to help with the plan, they can put an end to everything.

"I'll talk to Blaine," Kurt promises. "And he can talk to his dad."

"But if his dad could do anything, then how come he hasn't already?" Sam asks. "I mean, it's not like this whole big thing is this huge secret, right?"

"He might suspect that Christopher Hudson doesn't play by the rules, yes," Kurt says, "but if we give him evidence? And we accompany the evidence to put him behind bars with evidence that Hiram Berry belongs in the cell right beside his? If we have evidence, then it won't just be talk, and the whole thing will go to court, and the whole thing will _end_."

Sam nods, and Finn glances at his phone again, because he needs Rachel to call him back.

"Look, I know this is complicated," Kurt says, "but I think we have to do this before anybody else ends up dead. And, I mean —" He cuts himself off when the waitress offers to refill their drinks.

"I don't understand why you didn't do anything _before_," Mike says quietly.

"Because we didn't have any evidence before," Kurt replies.

"And what do you have now?" Sam asks.

"Nothing," Finn says, before Kurt can make some excuse. "But we've never even tried to look before. I bet if I go through my dad's office, I'll find something. And Rachel can do the same with her dad." Sam nods, and Finn checks his phone. Is it on silent?

"Oh, dude, we can totally, like, put a wire on you and you can talk to your dad," Sam says. "He'd probably totally admit to everything again, right?" He looks pretty excited now.

"You watch way too many spy movies," Mike tells him.

"Actually, I think we should try that," Kurt says. Sam grins, and Mike rolls his eyes, and Finn starts to wonder if something is the matter. It's nearly midnight, and Rachel would regularly be in bed by now. Is she in bed? But why didn't she call him back first? Or did she fall asleep before he called her? She would've called him, then, right before she went to bed, right?

He spends the night with Mike, and then he spends Sunday eating junk food and playing video games with him and Sam, as if they were back in time two months ago, because despite three phone calls and seven texts to her, he doesn't hear a word from Rachel.

On Monday morning, Mike drives him home to pick up his stuff for school.

It seems so wrong that he has to go to school with all this other shit. And he runs into his mom at his house, and she asks him where he spent the night. It's easy to lie to her, but then he starts to feel bad, because he's totally about to change her life completely.

But it might be good for her, right, if his dad went to jail?

The idea that his dad might actually go to prison kinda freaks him out. Like, his dad is still _his dad_, and he might be an ass, but to put him in prison? It's so messed up. Finn calls Rachel on the drive to school, because he _needs_ to talk to her about all this. She doesn't pick up.

He really doesn't want to freak out, but —

Finally, he sees her at school, going through her locker, and he starts towards her.

Except, is he supposed to talk to her at school? Their relationship is still a secret, isn't it? He tries to stand there and not seem too awkward as he waits for her to see him, but the bell rings, and she disappears down the hall without a single glance at him.

He nearly sighs aloud in class when she texts him during her free period and asks if he wants to meet up after school, maybe at that place a few miles off this random exit from the highway where the grass is always yellow, a few vandalized picnic tables still sit, and the single tree looks like it might be a hundred years old. It's the place he took her for a picnic the first week they dated.

He immediately texts her back to agree, and a few hours later, on his way there, he calls Kurt on the drive to tell him that he'll let Rachel in on the latest plan. "I know she talked to her dad last night," he tells Kurt, "or she was supposed to, anyway, but I'm pretty sure it didn't fix anything."

"So she still may not be ready to commit to this," Kurt says. "I mean, to put her dad in prison? Much as I don't care for my mother, much as I know she does dirty business, I still don't know how well I'd stomach that."

It's quiet for a moment.

"This has to happen," Finn says. "It _has_ to."

"I know," Kurt replies. "I can meet you two there after I finish tutoring, if you want. I'll help talk to her. I don't think she'll handle this well."

"I know she loves her dad," Finn says, "but she isn't gonna ignore the truth anymore. She'll be with us on this, Kurt. But, um, you can still come. We still have to talk more about everything. And, yeah, I'm here. I'll see you in what, like, an hour?"

Kurt agrees, saying he'll be even less than an hour, and they hang up as Finn pulls off the highway. He sees Rachel, standing against her car, or Santana's car, anyway. She must have borrowed it.

He climbs out, and she smiles at him. "Hi."

"Hey."

She hugs him, then, tugging him down so that her arms can wrap around his neck, and he takes a deep breath, her hair brushing his face. He smiles a little, because somehow she always makes everything better, even simply with her smile, with her hug, with the smell of her fruity shampoo.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you back at all this weekend," she says. "I spent a lot of time with my dads."

"It's fine," he says. "Is, um, is everything okay?"

She nods, and she leads them over to a picnic table. "I told them about us," she says. "And my daddy was so upset at first, but I told him how much I loved you, and he understood." She smiles at him, and he can only weakly smile back. He almost doesn't believe her.

"And I told him you weren't responsible for Noah," she goes on. "I told him that I talked to you, and that I knew you weren't like that. He believes me, he and my papa both, and they promised to find out who came in after you to hurt him like that."

"I — I already know," Finn says, and he suddenly doesn't want to tell her this, doesn't want her to know the kind of person that raised him. But she looks at him with wide eyes, and he spits it out. "It was my dad, Rachel. I told you I tried to call 911, remember? The police responded first, and my dad was on the scene almost as soon as I left."

"No," Rachel whispers.

He nods. "He covered for me, moved my car, and — and beat Puck up, and then the ambulance arrived, and it just . . . and that was it. And he told me all that when I talked to him on Saturday night. He just told me. He didn't even try to hide it. I'm sorry, Rachel. I'm so sorry."

"No, don't be sorry," she murmurs. "It's not your fault."

"I told him about us, like you said to," he says. "He didn't take it so well. He's crazy. And he was so pissed, and I just — I just walked out. But I ran into Kurt, and he started talking, and I think — I think I know what we can do about all this. I think I know how we can make it right."

"Yeah?" she says. "Is Kurt still a witness?"

He nods. "But it's not about that. He thinks if we work together, we can expose both our dads. He thinks he knows how we can make the Police Commissioner listen to us, and he's above my dad, you know, and Kurt doesn't think your dad has any influence over him, not at this point."

The words start to pour out of him, because this really could work. And then he and his mom would both be free of his dad, and Rachel wouldn't end up trapped under hers, and they could be together, _really_ together, and —

"Wait, no, Finn, stop — what do you mean, _expose_ our dads?"

"I mean, like the stuff they do," Finn says. "I bet if you and I snooped around, actually looked for real evidence, we could find it. Kurt thinks so, too, and Sam and Mike are in it. I bet Santana would help, too, if you told her —"

"Finn, you want me to find evidence against my dad?"

"Um, I mean, yeah," he says, hesitant. "Isn't that . . . I know you love him, Rachel, but he can't do what he does — we can't just let him, like, kill people and — and this is a chance to make everything right on _both_ sides." Isn't that what she wants, too?

"But he's my _father_, Finn," she says.

"He's a _murderer_," Finn replies. "I thought you knew that. I — you told me that you couldn't lie to yourself anymore, and we decided that we would deal with all this together, remember?"

"Yes, we'd talk to our dads, and we'd try to get them to accept our relationship," she says.

"And, what, we wouldn't do anything about the — the stuff they've done?" Finn says.

He can't believe this.

"I . . . I don't know, but I talked to my dad, and I know he's done horrible things, Finn, I know he has, but he's still my _dad_, and I still love him, and I —" The words pour out of _her_ now, and she looks on the verge of tears. But he can only shake his head at her.

"So what about Matt?" he asks, the words sticking in his throat. "Your dad did that."

"I know he did. And — and I'm not about to lie for him, or to try to stop Kurt from acting as a witness against Karofsky, and against my dad. I won't. I'm not a criminal, too. But to try to turn my dad in for everything? To _try_ to destroy my family? Finn, I can't do that."

"Rachel, it's —"

"It's my _family_," she says. "I love them. And with Noah in the hospital, with — I just can't abandon my family, no matter what mistakes my dad has made. He wants to make his business clean, he does; he told me so. He's tried to for years, but people like your dad stand in his way, and I know that's an excuse, I do, but if I stand by him, I can help him, I _can_ —"

"Rachel, that's bullshit!" Finn shouts.

She presses her face into her hands, shoulders shaking, and he wants to tear his hair out, wants to gather her up in his arms and hug her. He doesn't want to have this fight _again._ "I'm sorry," he whispers. "But, Rachel, _come on_."

"I'm sorry, too," she says, meeting his gaze again. "But I only have one family, Finn."

He shakes his head, reaching forward and taking her hand. "I'll be your family," he says.

"Finn," she whispers, pressing her lips together, more tears gathering in her eyes.

"I'll be your family," he repeats, and he takes her hand. "If you don't want to turn your dad in, okay. If you wanna just — just run away with me, run somewhere better, somewhere new, just me and you, we can start over, start all on our own — be our own family."

Still, she shakes her head, but she doesn't break his gaze.

"If you don't want to turn your dad in, I — I get that, I do. But you can't stand by and do nothing, either, Rachel, and I know you think you won't be doing nothing. But — but you won't be able to change him, change what he does, anymore than I'll be able to change my dad."

And she pulls her hand from his, standing, walking away.

He chases after her. "Rachel, please, don't do this again." He holds her arm.

She turns to face him. "I don't want it to be like this, and I do know the truth now, Finn, but I have to help him. I have to _try_ at least." She leans up before he can respond, and she kisses him. She holds herself steady with her hands on his shoulders, and she curls her fingers into the material of her shirt, and her tears slip onto his face.

The moment he puts his hands on her waist, she pulls back, the kiss over.

"Finn, I love you," she says. "And I want to be with you, but it can't be like this. I want to be your family, but I can't abandon the family I already have. If you and Kurt want to see your father stopped, okay. I understand. And I want you to do what you have to do. But this is what I have to do." She leans her forehead against his chest for a minute.

"Rachel," he murmurs.

She draws away from him completely. "If you can't stand by me on this, then I understand that, too. I know it's not right of me to think my father doesn't deserve prison, but it's how I feel, and I have to help him, whether or not you want me to. So, just — just think about everything, okay? And let me know what you want to do." She wipes her tears.

He tries to think of something to say, but nothing comes out, and he watches her walk to her car.

She glances back before she climbs in. He only stares at her.

And, just like that, she drives off.

The moment her car turns around the corner, out of sight, he slams his fist into his car door, pissed. It feels like they go in circles, and he just wants _out_. Trying to shake off the new pain in his hand, he forces himself not to cry, climbs in his car, and calls Kurt as he pulls back out onto the road.

But after a single ring, the phone drops from his hand, because the SUV is in the wrong lane.

For a second, he thinks it's Rachel, but it isn't, he realises.

And, _fuck_, that SUV really is in the wrong lane, really isn't about to pass him by in the left lane but instead is barreling straight towards him in his own lane. Finn swerves the explorer to the left. The SUV clips the side of his car, and even as he tries to course correct, he sees the SUV swerve in a complete U-turn.

_Holy shit_.

He slams on the accelerator.

It doesn't help. An instant later, the SUV hits his bumper, and he feels his seat belt tighten against his chest. He tries to push the car faster, but he _can't_ go any faster, and all of a sudden a gun fires. He ducks, only for his car to veer off the road, totally off kilter, because he has a flat tire, because that jackass just _shot his tire_, and —

And the SUV slams into the car, flipping it, and this is about Rachel, he knows, and she smiles at him in her gauzy pink dress with her pretty hair and her pretty eyes and little fairy wings on her back because she's a fairy princess and —

And that's it.

**tbc.**


	8. Chapter 8

a/n: I know this took longer than I promised on tumblr, but here finally is the next chapter, and the next one should be along soon! Thanks again to Quinn for editing :)

* * *

><p>It takes all her self-control not to run down the hospital hall.<p>

But she can't believe this, _won't_ believe this, not until she sees for herself.

Aunt Julia called Rachel only minutes after she arrived home from that disastrous talk with Finn, and Rachel turned around and ran right back out to the car. The front desk doesn't need to tell her where he is, and Rachel doesn't ask. It's two floors up, a left turn, and follow the blue footprints.

And then she walks into his room, clapping her hand to her mouth with excitement, and he tears his gaze from the baseball game on the television to grin at her. "Missed me?" he asks. It's too much to answer, and she feels tears pool in her eyes as she grins, relieved, happy, overwhelmed.

An instant later, she rushes into the room to jump his bed and hug him, and he laughs.

"Careful," he says. "The Puckasaurus is a little bruised."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she says, drawing back and then smiling happily as she sees his brown eyes beam back at her, the purple bruises on his face a little less terrible, a little less frightening. "I'm so happy you're awake! I'm so happy." Playfully, she runs her hand over his mohawk.

"You cry by my bedside?" he asks.

"Almost," she replies, still unable _not_ to smile.

"Ma did. I woke up, and she nearly had a fit. And the woman scared the shit out of every nurse in this place, 'specially when I wanted to watch TV and she couldn't find the remote."

"That's Aunt Julia," Rachel replies fondly. "But how long have you been awake? I should have been here sooner! I can't believe Aunt Julia didn't call me earlier!"

He shrugs. "Nah, I've only been up a few hours. And you were at school, so Uncle Hiram didn't want Ma to call you until class let out. 'Sides, now they're gone and you have me all to yourself." And he grins that stupid little grin, which makes her giggle as she leans forward to hug him gently.

"I'm really glad you're okay," she murmurs, and she bites her lip. "A lot . . . a lot's happened."

"I know," he replies, his grin fading.

"Noah —"

"I'm sorry," he says abruptly. "I — I know that you know what actually happened. I talked to Uncle Hiram, and he told me that you know . . . everything. And I'm sorry, Rach. I really am." He won't look at her, but she looks at him, stares at him, tries to force his gaze back to hers.

"You attacked Finn," she says.

"I know. I — I lost it. Rachel, I just — it's all so fucked up." He looks at her, face hard. "All I've ever known is that Chris Hudson is bad fucking news, and — and how could his son be any better? And then you, my cousin, you're with him, and I just thought — I thought he'd be this big ass, using you, messing with you —" He cuts himself off.

"It's not like that," she murmurs. "He loves me."

"That's what he said," Noah replies, self-deprecation in his voice. "I still tried to kill him, though."

"Oh, Noah," she whispers.

"I'm sorry. I fucked up. But I just . . . I was so _sure_ — I wanted to protect you. And I know that doesn't make it okay, but it's, like, it's just what I thought I was supposed to do, you know?" He looks like he might cry, and that breaks her heart, because Noah doesn't _cry_.

"It's okay," she says, reaching for his bruised hand.

"He could've killed me," he continues, voice constricted. "He had the baseball bat in his hand, and he totally knocked me on my ass, and then he just . . . ran. And, Rach, I can only think of one reason why he'd do that." He looks at her, and she can see the muscles in his jaw tighten. "It's 'cause he really does love you. That's it — he didn't want to kill me 'cause he loves you."

"No," she says. "It was because Finn is better than that — and he does love me, and I love him, but that's not why he didn't try to kill you." He needs to understand this; she needs to make him understand this. "Noah, he didn't try to kill you because that's not — that's _never_ okay. A person doesn't have to hurt other people to take care of his family.

"And Finn knows that, despite the man his father is."

"The man his father is?" Noah repeats, jaw still locked, and she hates the look on his face.

"I know," she whispers. "I know that he's responsible for. . . ."

"For me?" he asks, and, slowly, sadly, she nods. "His dad," he continues, voice low. "He just showed up at the hotel just — just minutes after Finn left, and he was _pissed_ when he saw me. He lost his shit. Punched me in the face, and then his fucking little minions —" He shakes his head. "It went black pretty fast. I might've been wrong about your boy Finn, but his dad?"

"He really is a jerk, I know," Rachel agrees.

"See, I wasn't gonna say jerk," he says, half a smile daring to slip onto his lips, and she smiles, too, brushing her thumb lightly over his purple knuckles. "But, yeah, let's call him a jerk."

It's quiet for a moment, a moment that's long enough to let the air darken again.

"I know what this family does now, Noah," she says. "Of course, I don't know _everything_, I don't know all the sordid details, but I know enough. I know what _business_ really means."

He nods. "Uncle Hiram kinda implied you did. But if you really think I can pretend that Chris Hudson didn't try to kill me —"

"It's not about that," Rachel says. "It's not about him. It's about — it's about this family, about us, about who we are. It can't be this way anymore," she tells him. "And Daddy promised me it wouldn't be. He promised me that he wouldn't take the law into his own hands anymore. He promises me that . . . Noah, the Berry family plans to go straight, and I need you be a part of that."

There's another small stretch of silence.

"Rachel, do you know what it means to go straight?" he asks. "It means go straight _to the police_."

"Yes, but you know what _I_ mean," she says. "And, honestly, I know that you don't trust the police now, not with Christopher Hudson at the helm, and you don't have reason to, but I don't think he'll be in charge for much longer. I think he'll have to face what he's done soon."

"Yeah? And how's that?"

"Finn says — Finn wants to make sure that his dad can't hurt anybody else again."

It's the simple explanation, but she honestly doesn't know the detailed one.

"It'll be okay," she murmurs. "I don't know what will happen, but I know it'll be okay. This family will be okay, I promise you, Noah." And she smiles at him, hopefully, cheerfully, because she _does_ believe that, and she needs him to believe that, too. It'll all turn out right in the end.

"And Finn's really okay with all this?" he asks. "He wants to bring his dad down, but he doesn't care that you plan to stick by yours, even though you know the shit he pulls? The shit I've pulled?"

"I . . . I don't know," she admits. "I talked to him just after school, and he didn't — I want him to be okay. But I won't abandon my family. I won't. And I really hope he'll be okay with that. I don't want to lose him anymore than I want to lose you or Daddy. Besides, who knows — maybe I can have it all, right?"

First, she'll help her dads start a legitimate business, and Finn'll see that his dad doesn't hurt anyone else, either, and then they'll find their way back to each other. It's not so totally crazy. It can work.

But Noah only looks at her sadly. "Yeah." He doesn't seem to want to talk anymore.

She remembers he's been through a lot.

She sits beside him on his bed, curled into his side, and watches baseball with him. She doesn't' really understand the _nuances_ of baseball, but Santana claims that baseball is a soap opera for boys, so Rachel prods Noah to tell her about the different players and different teams and different plays.

It isn't _terribly_ fascinating, but he's awake, and that's what matters.

Plus, when she sits and watches baseball with Noah, she doesn't have to think about Finn.

He looked so stunned, so _heartbroken_, when she told him that she couldn't turn on her father, that she couldn't abandon him. And that's the truth. But at what cost? It's not fair. It's the truth, but it's not fair, because she should be able to stand by her family and to stay with the boy she loves.

Aunt Julia brings dinner to the hospital.

A few hours later, on the drive home, Rachel decides she can't simply wait for Finn to let her know what he thinks. Because what if he doesn't really understand, and he thinks she doesn't want to be with him? Or worse, what if he wants to end it?

She needs to talk to him. First thing tomorrow at school, she'll find him.

* * *

><p>The school is abuzz the next morning.<p>

But she only walks to her locker, uninterested in whatever latest scandal has rocked the campus.

She needs to find Finn, that's what matters. As far as she can tell, there isn't a reason to keep their relationship a secret any more, and when she finds him, she'll pull him aside, and she'll ask him to trust her, to stay with her, to forgive her family.

"— and Becky says he must have been drunk. I mean, the car _flipped_ —"

Rachel rolls her eyes, pulling open her locker. She unzips her backpack, begins to unpack her books, only to pause when she sees an envelope sitting at the bottom of her locker. It's labeled with her name, and she can't remember what it is. It must have been slipped into her locker.

" — not the whole story. That reporter with the hair plug, he was on the news this morning, and he talked about it, said it was foul play, like, that he was run off the road purposefully. And, I don't know, but his dad _is_ a police chief —"

And she freezes, breath caught in her throat.

But she can't hear them clearly, not really, not over the bustle of students, and she must have misheard, that's it, that's all. Forcing herself to calm down, she grabs her history textbook from her backpack to put in her locker.

After all, if Finn were hurt, she would —

"— just a car crash. It's not like this is _The Sopranos_ or something, and somebody actually _wanted_ to kill Finn Hudson —"

Car crash? To kill? Finn Hudson?

No.

Rachel slams her locker shut, and she sees the girls, talking a few lockers down from hers. She abandons her backpack to interrupt them.

"Excuse me," she says, and she can't seem to breathe properly, and as the girls look at her as if she might be insane. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, because she simply she _needs_ to know she misheard.

"I didn't hear you say that Finn Hudson was in a car accident, did I?"

But the girls only stare at her. "Aren't you Rachel Berry?" one asks.

Rachel shakes her head and turns away, and she sees Mercedes down the hall. "Mercedes!" She feels like she can't move fast enough as she runs down the hallway, and she doesn't give her friend the chance to greet her. "Is Finn Hudson — have you heard — do you know —?"

The words won't come out right.

"I heard," Mercedes says, nodding sadly. "I mean, I didn't really know him, but he seemed nice enough, you know? And I saw on the news this morning that the police thing somebody purposely ran him off the road. It's scary, right?"

"No, Mercedes, _what_ did you hear? He was run off the road? Is he okay? Is he in the hospital?"

"I think so," Mercedes says, but she looks a little wary now, too. "Are you okay, girl? Are you friends with Finn Hudson or something?"

"You think he's okay? He's in the hospital? He's not — he's not dead?"

"Oh, I don't think so. But, wait, did you hear that he is? That'd be so awful."

"No," Rachel whispers. "I didn't. . . . Are you _sure_, Mercedes? Are you positive?"

"Rachel, it's all over the news," Mercedes says. "Are _you_ sure you don't —"

But Rachel only shakes her head, and she pushes past Mercedes, who looks completely baffled now. Rachel doesn't care about Mercedes, doesn't care about school. She just needs to know more.

If it's all over the news, she needs to see that for herself.

The computer lab on the first floor is empty, but the door is unlocked, the computers on, and she logs in with shaking fingers. The Internet seems to take forever to load, but she forces herself to take a few deep breaths. This might all still be a misunderstanding, and she can't panic yet.

She does a search on Finn. And a New York Times article is the first hit on Google, and it's not front page news, but it's certainly plenty big news: eighteen-year-old Finn Hudson, the only son of Patrol Bureau Chief Christopher Hudson, is in critical condition at New York Pres after a car accident late yesterday afternoon.

A car accident off the highway.

Alive. Still critical.

No witnesses, but foul play suspected.

She doesn't bother to log off before she takes off for the parking lot and her car. That article barely gives any details, and Finn is in the _hospital_. Her hands tremble too much to fit the key in the lock, and she has to force herself yet again to take a few deep breaths and not break into tears.

Finally, the key fits in the lock, and she repeats to herself that "in critical condition" means still alive.

But it doesn't mean he'll stay alive.

No.

She won't think like that, and she won't think about her dads, either, because they didn't do this.

They _wouldn't_ do this.

And Finn won't die, he won't, because she loves him, and she needs him, and she can't lose him.

It takes her nearly forty minutes to drive to the hospital, but she can barely think, let alone drive. The moment she shifts the car into park, however, she realises she can't simply walk into that hospital, can she? Because what if she sees his father? His mother? His friends?

The tears finally start to overwhelm her, but she bites her lip, balls her hands into fists, and presses her forehead to the edge of the steering wheel as she wills herself _not _to cry. But she can't sit here.

Finn is in that hospital, _in critical condition_, whatever that means, and she needs to see him.

Her tears flood her again when she steps into the hospital, but she wipes them away with her sleeve, and she glances around, trying to decide where to go, what to do. The front desk is her only option, she realises. Unsteadily, she starts towards it, only for someone to stop her.

"Hey, wait, Rachel!" he calls. She spins around, and her eyes land on a tall boy, with shining, nervous eyes and a mop of blonde hair. He's friends with Finn, she knows. Sam. His name is Sam.

"You're Rachel, right?" he asks, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, and she nods. "I'm — I'm Sam," he tells her. "Evans. Sam Evans. I'm friends with Finn."

"I know," Rachel murmurs, because it's all she can think to say, and it's quiet for a moment, a tense, awkward, _bad_ quiet. "I know I shouldn't have come here," she says abruptly. "I know that with his parents and with —" She shakes her head. "I just — is he okay? I still don't even understand what happened. He was in an accident, and now . . . is he okay?"

"Um, I — the doctors don't know," Sam admits. "He came in last night, and they said he was really bad off, so they kept him under until he could, like, handle surgery, and so that's happening now."

"He's in surgery now?" Rachel asks, swallowing thickly.

"Yeah." Sam shoves his hands in his pockets, and they start towards the hospital. "I don't really know why. Internal bleeding, or something. But I think he'll be okay. I mean, the car flipped and stuff, but, like, Kurt came in the ambulance with him, and Kurt didn't seem that freaked out, so, like. . . . I don't know. You know Kurt, right?"

She nods. "He's my friend."

Again, it's quiet.

"He, um, he told me about you," Sam tells her suddenly. "Finn, I mean. He told me. About the two of you. That you're together. He told me." He runs a hand over his hair. "And I guess I just wanted to, um, say that you can — you can wait with us if you want. Me and Mike. Chang. Mike Chang."

Rachel nods. "Is . . . is that okay? I don't want to make everything harder. . . ."

"It's cool," Sam says. "I promise." His smile is timid, but his eyes are warm, and she smiles a little.

And she hugs him, because she needs to, needs to hug _somebody_, and when she starts to shake with sobs that she tried so much to suppress, he tightens his grip on her, rocking a little. "He's gotta be okay," he murmurs.

Rachel nods, and she thinks the same, but the fact that they need him to be okay won't _make_ him okay.

Of course, plenty of people come out of surgery and are fine. Noah was fine. Noah _is_ fine.

Finn will be, too.

Sam takes her hand and walks her down the hall, and she sees everyone before anyone sees her.

Mike Chang sits slumped in his seat, eyes on the far wall, and he looks a little sick. He probably didn't sleep at all last night. Across from him sits a woman, messy brown hair pushed from her face with a headband, eyes red, hands trembling only slightly as she holds a book she stares at but doesn't seem to read. That must be his mother. And then there's his father.

"Come on," Sam murmurs, and they sit beside Mike, who nods and offers her half a smile. "Mike, Rachel," Sam introduces, "Rachel, Mike." Rachel nods and smiles, too, and she holds her hands in her lap as she dares to let her gaze move back to Mr. and Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson is oblivious.

Mr. Hudson stares at Rachel.

His sits slumped in his seat, too, his tie loosened and his shirtsleeves rolled up, his black coat and police cap tossed into the seat beside him, as if he came straight from work, probably the night before. His hair sticks up in the back, flattened oddly on one side, and a peppered five o'clock shadow covers his cheeks. His face is face blank.

Rachel has to look away. "How long has he been in surgery?" she asks.

"He went in at eight this morning," Sam says. "So only, like, an hour."

She nods, and this time her gaze catches on Mrs. Hudson, looking at her curiously.

"This is Rachel, Mrs. H," Mike says.

"R-Rachel?" Mrs. Hudson repeats.

"Finn's girlfriend," Mr. Hudson says, voice low, the words nearly disguised as a grunt.

"Finn has a girlfriend?" Mrs. Hudson asks. "I didn't . . ." Her sad eyes bounce between her husband and Rachel, and she smiles hesitantly. "It's really nice to meet you, Rachel."

"It's nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Hudson," Rachel says, and she smiles. The woman looks like she wants to say more, like she wants to talk to Rachel, but her chin trembles, and she simply nods, blinks quickly, and stares back down at her book.

Mr. Hudson abruptly shoots to his feet. "I need coffee," he announces, and he stalks off.

His gait reminds Rachel of Finn, and maybe she's simply gone a little crazy, but she doesn't care. She focuses on her lap, and when Mike offers her the contents of a half-eaten bag of peanuts, she hesitantly accepts a handful. A few minutes pass.

Maybe she can talk to a doctor. Maybe she can find out something. Maybe she can do something.

Mr. Hudson returns, a cardboard tray of coffee cups in his hand, and he hands a cup to Mike, and to Sam, and then — and then to Rachel. She stares at him with slight shock, but she takes the cup, and he returns to his seat, handing his wife a cup, too. Rachel takes a sip of hers. It's hot chocolate.

And it's quiet again.

How did this happen?

He must have been in the accident as soon as she left him. What if she hadn't simply walked away like that, leaving him distressed? What if she left him upset, and he was so upset that as he drove he didn't pay any attention, and now he's here? What if this is all her fault?

Or, worse, what if this isn't her fault, because it wasn't simply an accident born of distraction?

What if this wasn't an accident at all?

Her stomach churns, and she can't believe that. Her daddy wouldn't do that. He wouldn't.

He didn't. This was an accident, nobody's fault, and it won't even matter soon, when Finn comes out of surgery, and he's okay, and she can tell him how sorry she is that she walked away.

Mike offers her more peanuts. She sips her hot chocolate. She stares at Mrs. Hudson. She stares at the floor. She stares down at her favourite pair of brown flats. She eats the last of the peanuts.

She waits.

Until Sam stiffens in his seat beside her, sitting up straight, and she follows his gaze to a giant woman, a giant _doctor_, with dark curly hair, and the doctor walks towards them. It's the same doctor who helped Noah.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hudson?" the doctor asks.

Eyes wide, Mrs. Hudson nods, standing, wringing her hands, and Mr. Hudson stands beside her.

"I'm Dr. Shannon Beiste," the doctor says.

"I'm Carole Hudson — I'm Carole," Mrs. Hudson says. "And this — this is my husband, Christopher, and that's Sam, and Mike, my son's friends. His best friends. And that's Rachel. That's his girlfriend."

Dr. Beiste nods at Sam, Mike, and Rachel, and Rachel finds herself on her feet, too, stepping closer, Mike and Sam on either side of her. She holds her breath, because Dr. Beiste gives nothing away. Is Finn okay now? Is he on his way to recovery? _What is going on?_

"As you know," Dr. Beiste begins, "we had to wait on surgery for Finn, as his body had suffered too much trauma to handle immediate surgery. But our primary concern quickly became the blood that gathered in his chest cavity, and we feared a hemothorax. That's what we went into fix this morning, and we succeeded."

"Oh, yes?" Mrs. Hudson breathes. "He's okay?"

"But, if you remember," Dr. Beiste continues, "Finn also suffered some abdominal trauma, and some head trauma, and a lot of blood gathered in his brain. And we lessened that pressure during surgery. We did everything we could, but the damage had already been done. The pressure was too much." She speaks slowly, clearly, but Rachel doesn't understand.

"I don't . . . I don't know what that means," Mrs. Hudson whispers.

"It means that while your son is out of surgery, he remains unconscious, and the chances that he will wake up are slim. He has suffered severe brain damage, Mrs. Hudson. The pressure of blood on his brain was too much, and we tried out best, but we could not undo that damage."

It doesn't make any sense. Rachel stares at Dr. Beiste, trying to understand.

But it doesn't make any sense. It simply doesn't.

"I — I think I've misheard you," Mrs. Hudson says, and she can't seem to breathe any better than Rachel can. "I think — it sounded as if — as if you told me that my son, my only son, my sweet, sweet boy, my baby — it sounded as if you said that he was brain dead. That's not what you said, is it, Dr. Beiste? Shannon? Please tell me that is not what you said, Shannon."

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hudson," Dr. Beiste says.

"No," Mrs. Hudson says, shaking her head.

"But your son is, essentially, brain dead."

"No, no, no," Mrs. Hudson whispers.

"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but it is very, very unlikely that your son will wake up. The damage to his brain was too severe. I'm very sorry, Mrs. Hudson."

That's not right. It's not. Rachel doesn't believe this doctor. That's not right.

"Oh, God," Mrs. Hudson whispers. "Oh, God," she repeats, and the words become a wail. Her hands shake, and she starts to rock on her heels, her face contorting with tears. "_Oh, God_!"

Mr. Hudson wraps his arms around her, and his own face is stony as she clutches him.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," Dr. Beiste says, and she looks at Rachel, Sam, and Mike, repeating the words. "I'm very sorry for your loss." And she looks sorry, but Rachel can only stare at her.

This isn't real life. It simply isn't, and Rachel can hear Mrs. Hudson's wail in her head now.

_Oh, God_.

"If you'd like," Dr. Beiste continues, voice soft, "you can see him. I'll take you to see him."

But Rachel doesn't move, and she stares at Dr. Beiste. And he laughs in her ear, and _your sweet moonbeam, the smell of you in every single dream I dream, I knew when we collided, you're the one I have decided, who's one of my kind, _and the look on his face, the look on his face when she told him that she couldn't abandon her daddy, when she chose her father over him.

That look on his face —

_Oh, God_.

"I'd — I'd like to see him," Mrs. Hudson whispers, voice broken, tears slipping down her face.

Dr. Beiste nods, and she leads Mrs. Hudson away, and Sam takes a sharp breath and turns on his heel, disappearing in the opposite direction. Mike follows him. Still, Rachel stands, and she tries to remember how to breathe, but all she can remember is that dimple, that adorable little dimple.

Mr. Hudson looks at her, and she looks at him, and this isn't real. He doesn't believe it either.

"You love him, don't you?" he asks.

The words take her by surprise, but there isn't really room for any more shock inside her.

"I love him," she whispers. She loves him, and she won't give up on him. He could still wake up. He _will_ wake up. That doctor doesn't know anything.

Mr. Hudson nods. "I'm glad." He stares at nothing, repeating the words, his face blank. "I'm glad."

She watches him for a moment. "And you love him, too, right?" she asks.

Slowly, he turns to her again. "He —" He stops. And she sees it, finally, sees that the way he holds his face isn't natural, isn't right. "That's my boy down that hall," he murmurs. "That's my boy." He reaches up, touching his hand to his forehead, and then his hand is ghosting over her shoulder, and he cups the side of her head. "That's my boy," he says.

His thumb runs across her cheek, catches the first tear.

"That's my boy." His hand is clamped tightly over his mouth next, and his face contorts and he seems to teeter on the edge, the words now a muffled exclamation. "That's my boy!"

"Mr. Hudson," she whispers, and she starts to break. "He could still wake —"

"_That's my boy_!"

He walks forward suddenly, and then he turns and walks back, like he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know where to go, and his eyes land on her again, eyes read with tears he won't cry.

"You know what?" he says abruptly, "you know what?' I hated my father. I _hated_ him. But then? Then, kid, then I grew up, and I wanted to protect people. How do you like that? It didn't matter that if I became a police officer, it would be exactly what he wanted. Because I wouldn't be like him. I would be a good police officer. I wouldn't be like him."

He stares at her, but she isn't sure he actually looks at her.

"And then — and then I realized that this city?" His breath comes out in angry pants. "It's a fucking _mess_, and you know how much good a good police officer does? Shit. He does _shit_! And my old man, my dumb as _fuck_ old man, he told him how a real police does his job. He told me. He taught me. He taught me the only way to win when I have to battle with men like your father."

She opens her mouth, but no words come out.

"And I know people would judge me for the things I've done," he says. "I know. And I don't give a _fuck_. Because look what happened. Look what he did. If it weren't for stupid politics, that bastard would've been put away years ago, but with politics, with the rules that I'm supposed to play by to be a _good man_ — he stayed on this fucking earth, in this fucking city, and look what happened!

"That's my boy — _my boy _—!"

This man in front of her beat her cousin with a baseball bat. He isn't a hero. He isn't even close.

And she wants to hate him.

But she stares at him, and she _can't _hate him, and she thinks of her own father, and she feels sick.

"My daddy didn't do this," she whispers.

He shakes his head, and the smile on his face isn't a smile, and the black anger in his eyes seems so wrong as his lashes stick together with tears. "No," he says. "_No_. If you loved my boy, if you loved him even _half_ as much as he swore to me you did, then don't you insult him like that."

He takes a step towards her. "Don't you dare," he breathes.

She shakes her head, but she can't make herself speak, and he turns away from her again, walks forward to nowhere, turns, walks to another nowhere. She can't watch that. She can't be here. She needs to see Finn.

No.

She needs to see her father. She needs to prove Mr. Hudson wrong. She needs to know her daddy isn't at fault. She needs to know _she_ isn't to blame for this, for Finn in the hospital, unconscious.

Because he'll wake up, he will, there's still a chance, but what then? If her daddy did this —

And she starts down the hall, walking faster and faster with each step.

It only takes a few feet before she breaks into a run.

A nurse shouts at her, reprimanding, but Rachel doesn't pause, and the doors slide open for her, letting her out in the cold, and she stumbles to her car, tripping a little over her own feet.

The car is too silent, and she drives with her hands fisted around the steering wheel, denial clamped ever tighter around her heart. And then she's home, and the sound of voices behind his office door don't deter her, and she barges in, breathless, heart lodged in her throat, and the denial isn't strong enough —

"Rachel, sweetheart —?" her papa starts, eyes wide with concern as he starts to stand.

Mr. Tanaka is there, too, looking over her daddy's shoulder at a paper on his desk, and two men Rachel doesn't know sit in front of the desk. Rachel simply stares at them all and then at her daddy.

"I need you to tell me the absolute truth," she says thickly.

Her daddy straightens in his seat. "Nick, Don," he murmurs, "I'd like a moment alone with —"

"And I need you to tell me, Daddy," Rachel presses, "that you didn't try to kill Finn Hudson."

It's silent.

"Nick," her daddy repeats, "Don — if you would please let me talk with my daughter in private." The two men pass her by, but Rachel doesn't take her eyes off her father. "Rachel," he says, his voice calm and quiet, "you need to remember that we can only trust our family. No matter what, keep business within the family. Don and Nick are not family. Good men, yes, but not family."

"This isn't business," she says, and her voice breaks. "This is my life, Daddy, this is the boy I love, and I need you to tell me that you did not try to kill him. I need you to swear to me."

She won't cry. She won't.

He stands, and he circles his desk, and he comes to stand in front of her.

He places his hands on her shoulders.

"I did not try to kill Finn Hudson," he says, holding her gaze, his voice clear.

Slowly, she nods, allowing the relief to flood her veins. But Finn is still —

_Oh, God_.

Softly, he smiles. "I read in the paper that he had been in accident," he says. "And it sounds to me as if it _was_ an accident, but Christopher Hudson wants to trump it up as more. It was an accident. And he may well be okay. If you'd like, I can drive you to the hospital to see him."

And she stares at him, and all she sees is that tall boy, dressed up like an action figure, with his dark hair and the dimple in his cheek, and his eyes plead with her to play along, to help him, _please_, and she can't say no to that —

Rachel pulls back from her father, and her hands shake as she moves behind his desk.

"Rachel," Mr. Tanaka murmurs, frowning. He rarely speaks, but she ignores him now.

She pulls open a drawer, starts to pull out a paper, looks over the names, because she needs to do this, needs to be sure, needs to do this for him. She'll make sure for him, she'll make _sure_, because she won't let him down now, not if this might be the last chance she has not to let him down.

"Rachel, stop that," her daddy says.

The papers talk about imports and have all sorts of numbers and that's not what she needs, and she looks to his computer, shakes the mouse, pulls up his e-mail, and her daddy touches a hand to her arm. "Rachel," he repeats. "That's enough. I don't know what you think you might find —"

He has too much e-mail for her to search through them. She opens another desk drawer, and it's only paper clips and pens and rubber bands, and she opens the drawer beneath that, and —

"This is ridiculous. Rachel, stop," her daddy demands, voice sharp.

"I need to know," she breathes, "I need to know you didn't do it."

"I told you I did not," he replies.

But she shakes her head. "That's not enough," she says. "Because you've lied to me before, you've lied to me about so much, and I don't believe that you wouldn't lie about this, even though I'd hate you for that, even that I'd hate myself for that, but I need proof, I need _proof_ —"

"I did not send someone to run Finn Hudson off the road," her daddy says.

"I don't believe you," she replies, and she leans down and starts to open the bottom drawer.

Abruptly, he grabs her arm, and he forces her to stand up.

"I said that's _enough_," he snaps. "I told you that I had nothing to do with what happened to him, and you will believe me. This is ridiculous, and you _cannot_ behave like this under my roof."

"Hiram —"

"This is my roof, too, this is my house, and my life, and my boyfriend, my boyfriend who —"

And she gasps for breath.

"He might be your boyfriend," he snarls, "but I am your _father_ —"

_Oh, God._

"You did do it, didn't you?" she whispers. "Oh, Daddy, how could you — _how could you_ —?"

Her hands shake, but she tears her arm away from him, and she pulls open the bottom drawer, and it's nothing but printer paper and unused folders, but her dad hoists her up yet again, and she tries to pull away from him, tears blinding her vision.

"I can't believe you would do this," she cries, "I can't believe it! I can't believe you tried to kill him. You lied to me! You told me that you would stop all this! You told me you never wanted to hurt anybody! But that was a lie! You're a liar, and he's not gonna wake up, Daddy, you — it's your fault — he's not gonna wake up, oh, God, _he's not gonna wake up_ — because you _lied_ to me —!"

"I told you what you needed to hear," he says, shouting over her, "that's what I told you, and you need to hear _this_. You are eighteen years old, a baby, _my_ baby, and you know _nothing_ about the way this world really works, the way this city works, and —"

"Hiram, please —"

"Stop it," she screams, "you're not some hero, you're not, you're a murderer, you're a _murderer_! And I tried to pretend you weren't, I tried to pretend it wasn't real, but look what happened, look what you did, what _I_ did — he's not gonna — he's not — _let go of me_!" And she tries to shove him away from her, and she really can't see at all through her tears, and this is all too much.

"I will not let go until you_ listen_ to me," he spits. "You and that kid are finished, understand?"

"No," she shouts, "no, if he doesn't die, if he wakes up, _God_, I won't leave him, I won't, not ever, and I won't ever love anybody again, because I love him, and I hate you, _I hate you_, and you can't take Finn away from me, you can't, because he loves me, too, and we — we slept together, and I'll marry him someday, and _let go of me _—!"

And he slaps her across the face.

The shock cripples her, silences her sobs so they catch in her throat and choke her, and he holds her up with his hands around her arms, and he stares at her, breathing hard.

"You are my only child, Rachel," he murmurs.

Oh, please, _no_.

"And I love you," he says. "But you cannot do this any longer. I tried to keep you out of it, but you forced your way in anyway. I tried to talk to you this weekend, to indulge your fantasies, to calm you down, to pacify you, to make you understand. But, clearly, I failed, and I don't know any other way than to tell you the truth you so want to hear, because you have pushed me to the edge."

No, please, no, God, _no_.

"You want to know what happened?" he asks. "I had Ken trail you after school yesterday, and I had him run Finn Hudson off the road yesterday, because I will not have that son of a bitch within ten feet of you again, fighting with Noah, sleeping with you."

_Oh_, _God_.

Unable to breathe, she stares, and her knees start to buckle.

"I know you don't understand now," he goes on, "but you will, and you will _not_ try to defy me any longer, or ask me any more questions about my business, or do anything other than what I tell you. If you want a boyfriend, I will _find_ you one. But you and Finn Hudson are finished, and if you try to see him again then I will make _certain_ Ken finishes the job. That's it.

"That's the end of the discussion."

But the job is already finished.

And she can't breathe.

The room is silent, and nobody moves, nobody says a word, and she gasps again for breath, finally able to stumble backwards, out of his loosened grasp. He reaches out for her, though, and he touches her hair, and his firm face softens a little, back into the face of her daddy, the face she loves, the face that isn't even real.

She stumbles away from him, bumping into his desk, knocking off the stapler.

He sighs, anger gone. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "And I know you're angry now, Princess, but —"

But he can't call her that, he _can't_, not now, and she tears out of the office, not stopping as he calls after her. "If you need time to understand, fine, but you do _need_ to accept this," her daddy says, voice carrying out of the office after her. Still not stopping, she runs past Mrs. Proctor and back out to her car, only to collapse against the car door, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Sweetheart, please, come back inside."

It's her papa, her sweet, perfect papa, the man who replaced her mother, the man who used to swing her up off her feet whenever she asked, the man who sat and did nothing as her daddy tore her world out from under her, the man who's as responsible for Finn as her daddy.

Responsible for Finn, who won't wake up. Her heart seizes, and she sinks against the car.

Moments later, her papa wraps his arms around her, and he picks her up, holding her, and she shoves, kicks, shouts, sobs, and he lifts her up, as if she were little again. He carries her back inside the house, silent, and she sobs because Finn won't wake up, and her daddy did that, and —

It was so stupid to think that her father, _the mob boss_, would change his ways because she confronted him. It doesn't even make any sense. It's as if she didn't even really acknowledge the truth about him, and now Finn, her sweet, sweet Finn —

If she hadn't simply walked away from him —

Her papa takes her upstairs and to his room. He sets her down on his bed.

And she shoves him away yet again. He forces a kiss to her forehead, whispering that he loves her, but she only curls away from him. He finally leaves, closes the door, leaves her all by herself. She stumbles back off the bed and rushes to the door.

The knob only rattles in her hand.

It's locked. He locked her in.

_Oh, God_.

* * *

><p>The buzz of her phone, vibrating against her desk, jolts her awake. The room is dark. How last is it? Her head pounds, but she rubs at her itchy eyes and reaches for her cell. It's Finn.<p>

Breathless, hope flooding her veins, she answers. "Finn?"

"Um, no, it's — it's Sam. I have Finn's phone. I didn't know how else to find your number."

"Oh. Sam. Hi. Is . . . did Finn wake up?" He _can_ still wake up, can't he?

"No," Sam says. "No, I'm sorry, it's not anything good. I'm sorry." His voice is strained.

"It's okay," she whispers.

"I just . . . Finn loved you. _Loves_ you." He sounds as broken as she feels. "And he only— and I didn't even know until a few days ago, but the way he talked about you — I know he loves you, and I know you love him, and you should be here. You should be able to see him, if you want, I mean. If you want. Do you — do you want to see him?"

She clutches the phone a little tighter. "I do. I want to see him."

"Can you come to the hospital?" he asks. "Mr. Hudson went into work, but he forced Mrs. Hudson to go home to sleep first, and Mike's made friends with this really nice nurse lady, so if you want, if you can get to the hospital, I can get you in to see him, so that — so that before — so you can see him."

"I can come to the hospital. I'll have to sneak out, but I'll be there."

"Cool. Okay. I'll be here. Bye." He hangs up.

For a moment, she simply stares at the glowing screen of her phone, and then she forces herself up, because she needs out of this house, and she needs to see him, and it won't fix anything, but she can't think of something that will _fix_ anything.

Her clothes are rumpled, her hair a mess, but she shoves her shoes back on and tiptoes to the door. It's still locked, and even if it weren't, she can't simply walk downstairs and out the front door.

But if she leaves through her bathroom window, there's a trellis, and she knows that Noah has climbed up and down that trellis before. If he can do it, she can too. The window opens easily, and she hates heights, but she steels herself and climbs out.

Her feet scramble for purchase, branches scratching her calf, but her left foot finds a spot, and then her right. She clutches the strips of wood, slightly terrified, telling herself not to look down.

Slowly, foot by foot, she moves down, the vines on the trellis making her hands sticky, and she starts to sweat, even out in the cold, even with snow still on the ground, but if she just takes it one step at a time. . . .

Relief floods her when she touches the ground, and she stumbles back from the wall, wiping the sweat from her forehead, taking a few deep breaths. Okay. She's out. She needs to get to her car.

It isn't all that hard. She's lived here her whole life, and she can easily find her way around the house in the dark, and then to her car. Santana always said that when you want to sneak out, you keep the headlights off, and you put the car in neutral. It works. And she uses the remote in the car to open the gates, and as simply as that, she's out on the road, on her way to the hospital.

Sam stands right outside the sliding doors, hands deep in his pockets, blonde hair nearly white in the glaring hospital lamppost light, and she parks quickly and hurries towards him.

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Hey," he murmurs. "That was fast."

She only nods, and they head in together, down the hall, up the stairs, up more stairs, past the floor where Noah is, and then down another hall. Her breath catches when she walks through the door and there he is, motionless in bed.

He doesn't look like Noah did, all battered and bruised. His face is clean and clear, as if he really were simply asleep, and a part of her hates that, hates how easy this _should_ be when it isn't. He does have a bandage around his head, though, and everything Dr. Beiste said echoes in her hand.

It's not supposed to be like this. He can't stay asleep forever.

"I'll, um, I'll be right outside," Sam murmurs. She nods, or she tries to, and Sam leaves.

Slowly, she sits down beside Finn on the bed, and she takes his hand in hers. "Hey Finn."

She runs her hand over his hair. "I can't believe I'm back here like this," she tells him. "First Noah and now you? It's not fair. It's not." She shakes her head.

It's too quiet.

"I need you to wake up, okay?" she murmurs. "And I know you're probably really mad at me, and I — I'm mad at me, too. I'm so mad, and I'm so sorry, because you were—you were right about everything. I lived in this perfect little world that wasn't — that wasn't real, and I refused to admit it wasn't. And then you forced me to see that a real world existed out there, and I admitted that, but I still wouldn't walk out into it, and. . . ."

Her breath catches, and she bites her lip, tears slipping free, and runs her hand over his hair again.

"I know now, though," she murmurs. "I know. And I'm really sorry."

It's quiet. It's too quiet. It's _silent_.

She hates silence.

"You know how I always say that I want to be famous? I really do want to be famous. But listen to me. Listen. I don't need to be. If you wake up, we can leave, you and I. It'll be like you talked about. We can drive off and leave everything behind, and start out on our own. I really want to."

Sniffing, swallowing back more tears, she leans forward, closer to him.

"I know you want to put our dads away," she whispers, "and I love that about you, Finn. I love how _good_ you are. But I don't think we can do it. My daddy — I don't think I can find any evidence against him. If something were on paper, your dad would have found it. So — so let's just leave, okay? And we'll start out all on our own. We can go anywhere you want. Anywhere.

"But I need you to wake up for that, okay? I need you to wake up so we can leave."

She closes her eyes, crying, breathing in, hiccoughing, and she squeezes his hand. "Please," she murmurs.

"Please, Finn," she says, and she looks at him again, and she continues to stroke his hair. "I need you to wake up, because I can't leave by myself. I can't be by myself. I can't go home to my dads. I can't go to Santana, because she — she's a part of all this. And so is Noah. And I don't really have any other friends. I only have you. And that's all I need. But you need to wake up.

"I'll wait," she tells him. "I'll wait here for a minute. And you can wake up. I'll wait."

It's quiet again.

She curls the fingers of his hand around her hand. She searches his face for some sort of flicker, some sort of sign, just a little sign, just a little something, just a little proof that he'll wake up.

"Come on," she whispers. "Please."

Nothing.

And fresh desperation crawls up her throat, and it chokes her, and this can't be it. It can't.

"You — you remember when we had sex? That was nice, right?" She laughs humorlessly, new sobs bubbling up. "That was _perfect_. And it won't be perfect with anybody else. It won't. So wake up now, okay? I need you to wake up. I need you . . . I _need_ you . . . I need _you_, please. . . ."

But he still doesn't move; his eyelashes don't even flicker, and she presses her face into her hands.

Moments later, she grasps his hand once more, and she stares at him, _willing_ him to open his eyes.

"I will go wherever you go," she tells him, and her words come out broken by tears that make her eyes burn. "Anywhere you go, I'll go. You know what that means? Are you listening to me? You need to listen to me. If you go, Finn, if you go out of this world, I swear — I swear — I will go with you. I will go where you go. If you don't wake up, Finn, I'll go to sleep, too. Okay?

"_Please_ — please wake up, please — I love you so much, _please _—"

And she can't anymore, she can't. The tears are too much, and she collapses against him, pressing her face into his chest, clutching his hand, crying, silently begging him.

But nothing changes, and he doesn't wake up, and he won't. _He won't wake up_.

**tbc.**


	9. Chapter 9

a/n: and here's the final chapter! There _is_ an epilogue, though, and that should be along before too long. Thanks as always to Quinn for editing. Happy Grey's day everybody :)

* * *

><p>"This is dangerous, you know," Rachel murmurs.<p>

Her forehead presses against the car window as she stares out at the snow. The cold glass makes her head hurt, but she can't possibly care less. And if her head hurts, she doesn't really have to think as much.

"No, don't worry," Sam replies. "I'm a totally awesome snow driver. And I have those chains on my wheels, too, so we're really all good." He slows to a stop for a red light.

"That's not what I meant," Rachel says. "I mean it's dangerous for you to let me stay with you."

He doesn't reply right away, and she knows his gaze must be on her, but she doesn't turn to look at him. He let her stay the night at his house last night, even sleeping on his bedroom floor so that she could have the bed, and she knows she can't let him do that again.

"I already have over twenty missed calls from my dads," she tells him. "It won't take them much longer to find out where I am, and you aren't safe as long as they think you're part of the problem."

"I'm not scared of them," Sam says quietly.

"You should be."

The light must turn green, because he starts to drive again. It's quiet for the rest of the drive.

But he turns to face her as soon as he pulls into the hospital parking lot, and when she simply starts to unbuckle her seat-belt, ignoring him, he stops her with his hand over hers. "I know we don't really know each other," he says, "but he was my friend."

Finally, she looks at him.

"And I'm not gonna abandon his girl. I'm not. You're not alone, Rachel."

"Thanks." The word catches in her throat, and she can feel the onslaught of still more tears about to rise up again. She swallows them back. What good would it possibly do to cry anymore?

"Are you sure you want to be here for this?" he asks.

After Mr. Hudson called, Sam had woken her up this morning to relay to her the decision that the Hudsons had made and to ask her if she wanted to come to the hospital with him. She had agreed, still stunned at the news, but the news doesn't shock her still. It was the inevitable decision.

"I don't want to be anywhere else," she replies.

And even if she wanted to be somewhere else, she _has_ nowhere else to be.

He nods, and they head in. Mike is already there, as are Mr. and Mrs. Hudson, but Rachel only stares at Finn, who still looks as if he could wake up at any moment. For a moment, she wants to run, but yet again she remembers — where would she run?

Her whole life is here.

Mrs. Hudson sits where Rachel sat the night before, silently crying as she murmurs incoherently to her son. Mr. Hudson stands behind her, face impassive, eyes blank, hands curled into fists. He doesn't seem to notice or to care that Rachel came with Sam. Slowly, Rachel takes the other seat in the room, managing to nod in acknowledgement when Mike weakly smiles at her.

It's almost ten o'clock when Dr. Beiste walks into the room, sad, sympathetic smile on her face.

"I have a few last forms for you to sign," she murmurs.

Mrs. Hudson glances at her. "I thought we already signed everything. I told you that you could take — everything. He would want that. He was such a good, sweet boy. He would want to help as many people as possible. He would . . . he would. . . ." Her eyes water, and she looks back at Finn, murmuring nonsensically to him.

Dr. Beiste addresses Mr. Hudson. "This is for the funeral home," she says. "It's for us to transfer his body for cremation after. It's the last signature I need from you, I promise."

Mr. Hudson nods, and he takes the clipboard. His hand doesn't even shake as he signs his name, and Rachel knows he's past the point of feelings now. Her eyes travel back to Finn, already gone.

She can't escape _her_ feelings, though.

"If you all want to say goodbye, I'll step out," Dr. Beiste offers quietly.

"That won't be necessary," Mr. Hudson murmurs. "I think we're ready."

Mrs. Hudson lets out a choked sob. "Oh, my sweet baby," she murmurs, pressing her cheek to his and then kissing his face, before she stands, almost stumbling away from the bed, and Mr. Hudson wraps an arm around her.

Mike walks to the bed, then, takes Finn's hand, wraps his fingers into a fist, and bumps fists with him. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to, and neither does Sam. Rachel stays in her seat, and she stares at him, and she doesn't know if she can do this, if she can simply let them pull the plug on Finn —

And she can't stare at him, but she can't look away, and she inadvertently gasps to hold in more tears, because it isn't supposed to be like this, it simply_ isn't_ —

But he isn't really Finn anymore, and his organs could save so many other lives, and —

She presses her face into her hands, biting her palm, tears hot against her fingers.

"It's time," Dr. Beiste murmurs gently, and two nurses have appeared in the doorway.

Rachel forces back tears, even as Mr. Hudson nods, and he tugs his wife back still further from the bed. It all seems unreal to watch them move Finn from the bed to the gurney, and then they roll him out, past Rachel, who jumps to her feet even as her heart jumps into her throat, because this is it, this is the last time she'll ever see him —

And then he's gone.

Dr. Beiste, with a fleet of other doctors, will take him into surgery, and they'll take everything out of him, his heart and his lungs and his liver and _everything_, and then he'll truly be dead.

He already is dead, and nothing is left but an empty hospital room.

Rachel loses it. She claps a hand over her mouth, silent tears flooding her face. Sam touches a hand to her back, but she only stiffens and then stumbles away, and someone else wraps her up in a hug.

His chest is firm, and he rubs her back, and she shakes against him. "I'm so sorry," she whispers, the words broken, nearly drowned out in her sobs.

Gently, Mr. Hudson pulls away from her, but he grasps her shoulders catches her eye, waiting as she hiccoughs, as she blinks back more tears.

"I know," he says. He holds her gaze. "If you want, you can stay with us."

The words take her by surprise, and she tries to take a deep breath, to push past her tears, to understand what exactly he means. And then she glances at Mrs. Hudson collapsed on the bed, sobbing, and Mike, face contorted, his own tears springing free, and finally Sam, who stares back at her, and she knows what this means.

If she walks away now, then she only has one place to go: home to her dads.

But if she agrees to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Hudson, she crosses into enemy territory, and she can't cross back. And with Mr. and Mrs. Hudson, her dads can't touch her, not really, not the way they could if she tried to stay with Sam, or with Santana, or even with Kurt.

Mr. Hudson might not be any better than dads, but she has to choose one or the other.

"I want to," she whispers.

He nods, releases her, and she sinks back into the chair. Moments later, as more sobs bubble up in her, she pushes herself to her feet. She needs out. She can't sit here. Finn is gone. Finn is dead. And what is she?

About to team up with the devil to spite Satan?

Outside, snow has started to fall in icy sheets, and the cold air bites her face in the best possible way. It feels like she can breathe again for an instant, but only for an instant, and then the tears come again. She feels so _empty_, a blank, cold emptiness, and the more she thinks about what comes next, the more obviously she realizes that _nothing_ comes next.

This numb, strange, detached understanding hollows her out, and it terrifies her a little.

And it wouldn't be so hard, really, would it? It only takes a single bottle of pills, right?

But, no, that's insane. Her life isn't over, it can't be. If Finn were here, he would be so furious at her that she would even _think_ about something like that. Of course, Finn isn't here, is he? That's just it.

Her dads would be heartbroken if she killed herself. No matter what, they've always loved her. Or is that so stupid to think now? They killed her boyfriend. And her father isn't even sorry. She may not have checked her countless voicemails yet, but she knows any apology he offers is a lie.

Santana would be so upset, too. And Santana doesn't deserve that.

This isn't about Santana, though. Santana has her own life. She has her own parents, her own friends, her own future. It's not like recent events have changed her life at all, because she's always known what Rachel refused to admit. And Santana has Noah, too. She doesn't need Rachel.

Noah.

He would care. It would hurt him.

And her cold detachment thaws suddenly with this burning need to talk to him.

She needs to know if he knew. As she raced to see him two days ago, as she hugged him and smiled and cried, so happy, did he already know that her dads had tried to kill Finn? As she talked about how she still had hope that she could stand by her dads and be with Finn, did he know that her dads had already sent somebody to _murder_ the boy she loved?

He can't have known. She _needs_ him not to have known.

The door to his room is open, and he looks healthy and happy as he sits propped up by half a dozen pillows and shouts at the football game on the television. But his eyes go wide when he sees her, and she shuts the door quickly, clicks off the television, and whirls around to face him again.

"Finn is dead," she says.

He starts to shake his head.

"My dads are responsible. My daddy had him run off the road. My daddy killed him."

"Rachel," Noah murmurs.

"It was Monday afternoon, the same afternoon I spent with you. Noah, did you know? I need to know if you knew. When I talked about how much I loved Finn and you admitted that you knew he loved me, too, did you already know what was happening? What _had_ happened?"

He stares at her for a moment. "I knew."

Oh.

And she nods, tears welling again, even as her heart sinks.

"Look, Rachel —"

"If you knew, why didn't you do anything?" she asks, and somehow his answer doesn't even matter, because he already is her daddy, isn't he? His love is as good as a lie for all it does her.

"I didn't . . . what could I have done? Uncle Hiram came to see me when I woke up, and I told him everything, and he said that he would take care of Chris Hudson, make sure this never happened, and that I didn't need to worry about Finn Hudson, either. That he'd already _seen to that_."

Rachel shakes her head. "I don't want to hear this," she whispers.

"I think he did it more for you than for me," Noah continues. "He wanted to protect you —"

"No!" she snaps sharply. His shock silences him. "I won't be an excuse. I won't be the reason this family thinks murder isn't _murder_. I won't. Not now. Not ever. Not anymore." The words come out slowly, come out with so much overwhelming anger, and she shakes with the fury.

It's the same excuse Christopher Hudson gave. It's the _worst_ excuse.

And it's the excuse everyone she knows wants her to accept.

"I'm sorry," Noah says.

"I don't really care," Rachel replies. "Finn is dead, and your apology doesn't change that."

She turns to leave.

"I know it doesn't make anything better," Noah says, "and I know I'm an asshole. But you don't have to pretend with me. I know about the plan. I talked to your boy, Kurt. He told me."

"The plan?" she repeats.

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "I took a little stroll, okay? After you left on Monday. There are some _hot_ nurses in this place, but for some reason they only send the old ass fuglies my way, and I decided I needed to take my game on the road while I could still play the sympathy card."

"Noah —"

"And I saw them, saw Kurt and Finn and that badass doc Beiste, and I talked to Kurt. He told me."

"He told you what, Noah?" she asks.

"The _plan_," he says. "I know, okay? And I haven't told anyone, and I won't. I even offered to help, and I still will. I know I've done some awful shit, Rachel, but I — I love your crazy ass, okay? And if you want out, you deserve out." He looks at her imploringly. "I'm with you on this."

She shakes her head. "It doesn't even matter anymore," she tells him.

He frowns.

"I turned Finn down," she says. "I told him that I couldn't betray my dads. And look what happened." Her hatred turns on herself. "And even if I wanted to try to carry on, to end this stupid _war_ like Finn wanted, I wouldn't know how. I can't take his dad down, and I don't think my own dad would leave any evidence for me to find, especially not now."

"No, Rachel," Noah murmurs. "No. That's not what I mean. I _know_, Rachel. I know the _real_ plan."

"I don't . . . what are you talking about?" she asks.

He stares at her, his frown deepening. "Rachel, do _you_ know about the plan? Kurt came up with as he and Finn waited for the ambulance? He — he said he told you, that he, like, didn't want to call you in case your dads intercepted, and he didn't want to risk finding you at school, but he explained everything to you in some letter, or something — did he not —?"

Her mind frantically tries to put the pieces together, and she remembers the letter—the letter in her locker, labeled with her name, and she had thought nothing of it, thought maybe Mr. Schue had slipped it into all of the choir students' lockers, but she never did read it, did she?

"I didn't read that letter," she whispers.

"You really don't know," Noah says.

"No, I . . . I don't . . ." she murmurs.

"Rachel," he tells her, emphatic now, "you need to talk to Kurt."

* * *

><p>Her phone rings yet again, and she rolls her eyes.<p>

She knows Mr. Berry is freaked, but if he calls her _one_ more time, she just might have to cut him. Honestly, he had to have known that this would happen eventually. Rachel isn't stupid, and something or other was bound to make her finally realize the truth, and _of course_ she would freak.

Santana kind of hates that Rachel didn't come to her, however, but then again if Rachel really wanted to run away, she wouldn't run to Santana, whose parents are as involved in the Berry business as Hiram Berry himself. It makes perfect sense that Rachel would run to Finn Hudson, even if the poor kid were in the hospital. And that must be where she went, right?

But surely Rachel isn't about to take up with the Hudsons? They're as bad as the Berrys.

Rachel wouldn't do that, though. She might love Finn, but she'll stand by her family.

Finn is replaceable. Family isn't.

Santana flips the channel on the television. Nothing is on at two in the morning on a Wednesday night. Shocker. But she can't seem to sleep, and if Rachel _does_ call her, then Santana needs to be awake for that. And Rachel has to call _eventually_.

This school is kind of a hellhole without Rachel or Puck there, because most of the other little preppy jerks in this place are just that — preppy jerks with too little brains and too much money. And school is the least of her problems. Rachel really does love Finn Hudson, and despite the way that Santana waited knowingly for that douche to break her heart, he turned out to be _not_ so much of a douche, and now he's hospitalized by what Santana is positive was _not_ an accident.

Where does that leave Rachel?

Santana sighs, changing the channel once more as her phone starts to vibrate again. She rolls her eyes, knowing it's Rachel's dad. Again. At this rate, Santana needs to call Rachel for the umpteenth time simply to chew her out over her voicemail.

But when Santana glances at the screen, it isn't a call from Hiram. It's from Rachel.

She nearly drops the phone in her haste to answer. "Okay, _where_ have you been?" she exclaims. "At the hospital? How long do you plan to camp out there? Your dad is ready to _kill_."

"He already has," Rachel murmurs, and her voice sounds oddly hollow.

Santana frowns. "Rachel, what —?" But she knows what this is about. She clicks off the TV.

"He killed Finn, Santana," Rachel continues, voice black. "He ran him off the road, flipped his car, sent him to the hospital. He died. He's brain dead. They sent him to be cremated this afternoon."

"Rachel, I'm sorry," Santana whispers.

Rachel doesn't deserve any of this. A part of Santana honestly wants to hate herself for how she knew this would happen, just _knew_ it, and she didn't even really try to warn Rachel.

"He probably sent Mr. Tanaka to do it," Rachel says, and there isn't anger in her words, or tears, or _anything_ at all. "That seems like something Mr. Tanaka would do, doesn't it?" she asks. "My daddy sent his cousin to murder my boyfriend." The words come out slowly and calmly, _emotionlessly, _and the more she talks, the more she starts to freak Santana out.

"That's awful, Rachel," she says. "And I'm so sorry. But where are you right now? Are you at the hospital? Are you okay? I can come pick you up."

"I'm not okay," Rachel replies quietly. "I won't ever be okay."

"You will," Santana says. "You'll be okay, Rachel, I promise. I know — I know you really loved him. I know you did, and you know that isn't a line. But it _will_ be okay. Are you at the hospital right now? I can come see you. You shouldn't be alone."

"I am alone," Rachel murmurs. "But I told him if he went, I would go, too."

"If who went where?" Santana asks. "You're still at the hospital, aren't you? I'm on my way."

She stands and starts up the stairs to her room to grab her car keys.

"No, I left the hospital," Rachel says. "I talked to Noah, and he — he's as bad as my fathers. And I talked to Kurt, I called him, and I talked to him, and all he talked about was how Finn didn't have to die in vain, and I can't . . . I can't do this, Santana. I'm out. I've driven all around town, and I don't have anywhere else to go. I'm out."

"I don't know what that means," Santana says, _but it sounds really bad_. "Please, Rachel, tell me where you are. I'm leaving my house right now, heading towards my car. Tell me where you are."

"I'm in my car," Rachel says. "Or my daddy's car. It doesn't matter. I'm driving along Broadway. Finn used to drive me along Broadway, up to the little park. It was better than Central Park. It was _our_ park."

"Okay," Santana says. "Okay. That's fine. You're on Broadway. Where are you headed?"

"I'm headed to see Finn," Rachel replies.

And Santana really starts to panic, because her voice, her words —

"Rachel, you just said . . . Rachel, I need to know _exactly _where you are _right now_."

"You were my best friend, but you lied, too, didn't you?" Rachel asks, and her voice still sounds so unbelievably blank, and Santana doesn't want to think what she's thinking.

Rachel would _never_ do that.

She is not that person. She is Santana's best friend. She _knows_ Rachel, and she is _not_ that person.

"And it doesn't even really bother you what my family does, does it? You don't care that my daddy is a murderer, and that he probably does all manner of terrible things, and my papa is the same, and so is Noah, and . . . and why doesn't it bother you, San?"

"It bothers me," Santana insists, and she climbs up into her car, turning the ignition. "Rachel, pull over to the side of the road and tell me where you are. I'm in my car. Just tell me where you are. Are you still close to the hospital? Have you passed that cafe I love? Have you —?"

"I need to know why it doesn't bother you," Rachel says.

"It _does_ bother me, Rachel," Santana tells her. "But — but as long as I'm in high school, I can't change anything. Or I've — I've always been too scared to try, but I'll try if you need me to. I'll help you, Rachel. Together, we can — we can try to make it all right —"

"Finn is already gone," Rachel murmurs. "It's too late. I need to go now, Santana."

"Rachel, _stop_ —"

The call ends.

No.

Santana takes a deep breath, and forces herself to stay calm as she calls Rachel.

But of course Rachel doesn't pick up.

It all happens quickly after that.

Panicking, Santana calls Mr. Berry. He picks up after a single ring, and the words pour out of her before he can do more than say her name. "I think Rachel is about to kill herself!" she cries, and she tells him what Rachel said, and the way she said it, the deadness in her voice, how hopeless and empty and _wrong_ she sounded. She starts to cry as she talks.

"Tell your father," he instructs. "Tell him to search for her, and you search, too, and I'll send everyone else I can find to do the same. We'll find her. We'll stop this." He hangs up.

It doesn't take her long to wake up her entire household, and she ends up in the car with her mother, because she can't drive herself. A part of her expects to find Rachel simply sitting at the hospital, for this all to have been a stupid misunderstanding.

But a larger part of her is _terrified _this might be real, and she points her mother towards Broadway.

She's the first to see the smoke.

"Mama," Santana breathes.

Her mother hits the accelerator.

And as they turn down the road, she sees cars ahead, she sees an SUV pulled over on the side of the road, Mr. Tanaka on the phone beside another car, and then she sees the car she was frantically scanning for.

It's wrapped around a tree, and all that's left is the giant carcass of metal, the last a few flames licking the sides even as a remaining pillar of thick, black smoke rises up from the wreckage.

She stumbles from her car before her mother even slows to a stop.

The sound of ambulances in the distance washes over her, her heart grasping for hope at the thought of help on the way.

But then she sees Hiram Berry, hunched over on the ground, soot and dirt and blood on his hands and face, staining his shirt, his coat abandoned a few yards away, a small fire still burning on the sleeve, and that's her answer. He must have tried to climb inside that mass of twisted metal, the fire eating away at him as he went, and he came out empty-handed,.

Still, Santana looks around for Rachel.

Her eyes land on Leroy Matthews, who stares back at her, tears on his face.

She tears her gaze from his and looks at the car. There's nothing at all left inside, certainly not a person. For a moment, she tells herself that maybe Rachel wasn't in the car, but how is that possible? Maybe she started to speed towards a tree and then she freaked and rolled out of the car.

Because if she didn't do that, then she simply crashed her car and burned inside it and is _dead_.

No.

Santana shakes her head.

_No_.

The ambulance arrives minutes after, but there isn't anybody to rescue. The police arrive, and Hiram Berry simply sits on the ground, staring at the car, ignoring Leroy trying to shepherd him away from the police who swarm to the site, asking questions, talking to Mr. Tanaka.

Her mother talks Santana back into their car and takes her home before too long.

She can't sleep. She turns on the television. She watches infomercials. She calls Rachel.

She calls her again and again and again, and every call goes straight to voicemail.

The phone is probably another piece of deformed, melted metal in the ruined car.

A little after noon the next day, the police come to talk to her. They're only detectives, nobody important, but they ask her about Rachel's last phone call, to relay _exactly_ what Rachel said, if she thinks Rachel sounded suicidal. They won't answer any of her own questions about Rachel, though.

Her father kicks the police out eventually, and Santana retreats back to her room.

She calls Rachel again. It's useless.

It isn't until that night that she comes out of her room to hear her father and her mother talking in the kitchen, the television a low buzz in the background. "Hiram is a mess, and Leroy isn't much better," her father says. "The police grilled them, as if those bastards could help."

"That filthy Hudson show his face?" her mother asks.

"He did," her father murmurs. "Asked a few questions. But he lost his kid, too. Apparently that's what this is all about. Rachel committed suicide after the Hudson boy died. They had some sort of secret romance."

"A secret romance? How did she even known him?" her mother says.

"I don't know," her father replies, sighing. "I'm not convinced it was a suicide. Maybe Hiram wants the police to think that, to drop the case with that decision, and then he plans to take care of the rest himself. It's what I would do. And I know —"

"It's on the news, darling," her mother murmurs, and the volume on the television sours up.

The news caster describes the crash, and then the police commissioner of all people, tall, stately Jack Anderson, appears to say that the gruesome accident had, in fact, been deemed a suicide, although little forensic evidence remained.

"Little forensic evidence?" her mother says, looking at her father.

"Her hair, bits of her jeans and her shoes, a few charred remains."

Santana feels sick.

"She really was in that car, really did crash and . . .? Oh, Lord. Poor Hiram. Poor _Rachel_."

She can't listen to her parents talk anymore. And she can't stay in this house anymore. She walks out the front door, still in her clothes from the night before, and it doesn't take her long to wind up at the hospital.

For a while, she simply stands by her car and stares at the building, but finally she makes her way inside, makes her way into the place where her best friend decided to commit suicide. She still can't really believe that this is real, but she saw the car herself, and she can't really deny it.

She sinks into a seat in the waiting room. How could Rachel have killed herself over a _boy_?

It had to have been more than that. She might have really loved Finn, but it had to have been more than that, had to have been the truth about her family, the pain of the betrayal, and maybe — maybe Rachel was even sick. Santana shakes her head and puts her face in her hands.

She doesn't even really understand what happened. How did Finn die? In surgery? And, what, as soon as she learned, Rachel decided she wanted to die, too? But why couldn't she have realized that if Finn loved her half as much as she loved him, he wouldn't want her to do that?

_Damn it_,_ Rachel_.

And she finally starts to cry, letting the dam break, letting the sobs overtake her.

Her best friend _killed_ herself. She's dead. She's gone. She took her own life, because the boy she loved died, because her fathers were murders, because Santana couldn't stop her. She's _dead_, and there's barely anything even left her, just a trace, just enough evidence to prove she's _dead_.

How could she . . . ?

Santana collapses in on herself, hugging her middle, pressing her face to her knees.

The words repeat over and over again in her head. Rachel committed suicide. Rachel killed herself. Rachel is dead. Rachel is gone. Suicide. Dead. Gone. _Rachel_. Santana bites down on her lip hard, and she thinks suddenly of Noah, who couldn't stop this either, Noah, probably still upstairs.

Does he know?

If he doesn't, Santana can't be the one to tell him.

Someone touches a gentle hand to her shoulder, and she snaps up, startling the nurse.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" the woman asks, eyes kind.

"Do I _look_ okay?" Santana snaps, gasping for breath but only finding sobs.

"Is anyone here with you? Would you like a cup of water?"

Santana shakes her head, waving the woman off. "It's . . . it's. . . ."

And the nurse looks so genuinely concerned that Santana finds the words pouring out of her, interrupted by tears and hiccoughs. "It's my best friend," she says, "my best — best — _best_ friend! She killed herself. Her boyfriend died, he was — he was in a car accident, and he died, and they — just yesterday they harvested him for organs, and then she called me and she was all messed up and then she _killed_ herself, ran her car into a tree and —"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," the nurse says, rubbing Santana's back.

"I don't even know what happened . . . I don't. . . ." She shakes her head. "How did it happen? How did you let that dumbass die, and then just let Rachel walk out of here like it was nothing? How did you let fucking Finn Hudson die, and then not even bother to see if Rachel was okay?"

"We really aren't supposed to release any information, but — but you said his name was Finn Hudson?" the nurse asks. "Let me look, okay?"

Santana manages to nod, and the nurse smiles kindly and heads back to the front desk. It doesn't take her long to return, and she looks a little perplexed when she does.

"Sweetheart," she says hesitantly, "the records say that Finn Hudson came in on Monday afternoon with a fractured risk, bad bruising but no internal bleeding, and a minor concussion. Dr. Beiste had him stay two nights for observation, but he was released Wednesday morning."

"No," Santana says, "no, that's not right."

"It's what our records say," the nurse insists, looking at Santana with growing concern. "I'm sorry, dear, but do you maybe want to talk to somebody? I can find a doctor. . . ."

But Santana is already on her feet, walking away, and her mind begins to spin as she makes her way out of the hospital.

The NYT had a small obituary for Finn this morning, saying he had died yesterday afternoon and the memorial service would be held this afternoon. It hadn't been front page news like his accident, probably because Chris Hudson had told the reporters to keep everything quiet. But Rachel had told Santana on the phone that Finn had been declared brain dead after surgery, that they had wheeled him off for organ donations.

It doesn't make any sense, except. . . .

Santana starts to chuckle. "Oh, Rachel," she murmurs, grinning to herself. "You little _bitch_."

* * *

><p>He thinks he might be sick.<p>

The fact that Kurt drives like a maniac, speeding and twisting through lanes, doesn't help. He leans his head against the car window, feeling woozy and dizzy and _bad_. Apparently, it makes a person feel like complete and utter shit to feed him date rape drugs, and he can barely even talk without slurring his speech, let alone keep down the sandwich Kurt had brought him for dinner.

But then Rachel touches a hand to his face, turning her hand to feel his forehead.

"Come here," she murmurs.

He does, shifting to lean closer to her, and he tries to focus on the smell of her shampoo.

The car jolts to a stop. "This is it," Kurt announces. "This is the end of the road."

Rachel climbs out of the car, and she holds out a hand to help Finn.

He doesn't know where they are, probably somewhere off the highway, but it doesn't really matter.

Puck parks the jeep beside them, and Finn tries not to put too much of his weight on Rachel as he stands. It's still so dark out, and so cold, and he wraps his arms around Rachel, holding her to his chest, and tries to will his head not to pound. She runs her hand up and down his arm.

Finn had spent all day Wednesday in a stupor, sleeping off the pills in the motel where Kurt had dropped him off after kidnapping him from the hospital, and from the moment Kurt had returned that night with Rachel in tow, Rachel hadn't let Finn out of her sight.

After smacking him, _hard_, she had exclaimed that he could never, _ever_ fake his death again, not without making _sure_ she knew beforehand. He had only smiled and kissed her, and then holed up with her at the motel all day Thursday, promising her over and over again that he would never leave her like that, not ever.

"You'll have to ditch this car pretty soon, remember," Kurt tells them, taking the keys from Puck and handing them to Rachel. "My dad doesn't keep the best track of his inventory, but he'll know this is gone before too long, and then it'll be tracked."

Rachel nods. "I know."

"How much money do you have?" Kurt asks. "You'll need a lot."

"I couldn't take too much out of my bank account," Rachel says, "or Daddy would be suspicious. But I have five hundred. That's something, isn't it? It'll be a _start_, at least, the best we can —"

"Try three thousand and five hundred," Puck says, and he holds out a wad of cash.

"Noah," Rachel murmurs.

"You'll need it," Puck replies. "And I won't. Take it."

She hesitates for a moment, but she finally reaches forward and accepts the cash, tucking the money into her purse, and Finn looks at Puck, whose gaze moves from Finn to Rachel.

"You better take good fucking care of her," he says.

"I will."

And Puck nods, conversation finished.

"Remember," Kurt finally continues, "you need to settle as far from here as you can, and you need to draw as little attention to yourselves as possible. For all we know, it won't even take a week for forensics to prove that a body wasn't in that car when it hit the tree, or that I took a wrench to the engine to set it on fire. Your dads would send the hounds out as soon as they learned."

"I know," Rachel says. "But they won't find us." She tilts her head to look at Finn.

He smiles.

"And your story isn't air tight either," Kurt says, and Finn glances at him. "Beiste agreed to help us, and she exaggerated the situation to the press, lied point blank to your parents, and brought a few trusted nurses in cahoots with us, but if anyone asks questions, that web will become far too complicated, far too quickly. It won't take much for someone to realize that you most certainly did not have any surgery whatsoever, let alone two, one to donate organs."

"I still don't know how you convinced Dr. Beiste to agree to it in the first place," Finn says.

"I met her when Artie was in the hospital," Kurt says. "She's the best surgeon in this city, and she spends half her career trying to save the poor souls that your fathers run across." His face softens as his gaze flickers to Rachel. "I had a feeling she would agree to help stop any more violence any way she could, even if in the end it only saved the two of you."

It's quiet.

"But it could save a lot of people, right?" Rachel asks. "This could be a wake up call. It could make our dads realize that things have to change. After all, our dads will lose what they love most."

"Yeah, 'cause apparently my dad was actually messed up about me," Finn murmurs.

"He was," Rachel says. "I was, too."

He holds her a little closer.

"I don't know what this will do," Kurt says, "but if we're lucky, then maybe it'll make your dads careless, which will let us catch them, and I've already talked to Blaine. He thinks if we can find evidence against Mr. Hudson, his dad will listen. We might be able to put them all away."

"I'm sorry we won't be around to help," Finn says.

"You can't help if you're dead," Puck replies, "and if you stay, you're as good as dead."

It's quiet again.

Kurt clears his throat. "As soon as we can," he says, "we'll try to contact you to let you know you can come home. This won't be forever, not if I can help it." His eyes are wet, and Rachel surges forward suddenly, away from Finn, to hug Kurt.

"I'll miss you, Miss Rachel Berry," Kurt murmurs.

"I'll miss you, too," Rachel whispers. "Thank you, Kurt. Thank you so much."

As they break apart, Rachel wipes at tears, laughing a little when she sees Kurt wipe his own tears.

Kurt looks at Finn. "And when I think I can, I'll tell your mother the truth. I'll tell her that you're okay." He smiles. "I have a feeling losing you, though, might be just the push she needs to make her fight for the only other person she really loves."

Finn smiles, too. "And you think your dad will fight, too?" he asks.

"If I have anything to say about it, hell yes," Kurt replies.

Finn laughs, despite everything, and Kurt steps forward, hugging him.

"Maybe the next time I see you," Finn murmurs, "you'll be my brother."

Kurt nods, wiping away more tears. "Maybe." He steps back.

"Thanks, man," Finn tells him. "I don't know what we'd have done if you hadn't known to talk to Beiste, if you hadn't — if you hadn't fed me date rape drugs for two and a half days —"

"It's _flunitrazepam_, Finn, honestly," Kurt says. "I'm not a rapist. And Dr. Beiste administered the drugs, thank you very much." He sniffs indignantly. "But I appreciate your sentiment."

Finn laughs. He thinks maybe he and Kurt could've been awesome friends. Maybe they still will be, if Finn and Rachel can ever come back. He doubts that they will, not if they manage to escape, but for now he'll pretend otherwise, especially for Rachel.

The way she looks at Puck — it makes Finn feel like he should give them some privacy. He can't say he knows anybody that he grew up with who has always loved and adored. Not the way that Rachel grew up with Puckerman, the way she loves and adores the jackass.

And he _is_ a jackass, but he'd do anything for Rachel. That's pretty obvious.

"This is it," Puck murmurs, hands in his pockets.

Rachel nods. "I'll miss you, Noah. I'll miss you so much. You have no idea."

"Nah," he starts, "you'll —"

And Rachel throws herself at him, hugging him tightly. Laughing, he catches her, holds her tightly, and rubs her back. Finn looks away when he sees Puck start to cry.

"You are the most _amazing_ cousin in the world," Rachel whispers, "and I love you _so_ much."

Puck starts to release Rachel, but she only hangs onto him, and he grins. "I know, Rach."

"Aren't you going to tell me you love me, too?" she asks.

"You know I do," Puck says, and he murmurs something else to Rachel that makes her giggle, even as she steps back from him with new tears flooding her face. "And I'll be waiting for mysterious postcards with vague clues about your life," he adds.

"Of course," Rachel replies, and she takes Finn's hand.

They all stand for a moment, staring at each other, as if something more should happen.

"Rachel should probably drive," Kurt finally murmurs, "because Finn shouldn't operate heavy machinery for several more hours. Or several days, all things considered."

"It's no problem," Rachel replies. "I'm a _superb_ driver."

Puck snorts and then starts to cough loudly. Finn pounds him on the back, grinning.

It happens simply after that, as Rachel hugs both Kurt and Puck again, and then she heads towards the jeep that Kurt helped sneak off his dad's lot. Finn follows, pausing slightly when Puck holds out his fist. Nodding, Finn bumps fists with Puck and then climbs into the jeep.

His head pounds a little at all the movement, but he sinks into the seat and takes a deep breath.

They're getting out. It's over.

Rachel starts the car and backs up onto the road, only to pause again, raising her hand at Puck and Kurt, still more tears falling. Puck and Kurt both wave, too, and Rachel looks down at the steering wheel. Finn takes her right hand, squeezing it, and her eyes travel to him. She smiles.

And she starts down the road.

The street turns, and Puck and Kurt disappear from view.

"I don't have a map," Rachel says. "We should have thought of that." She abruptly pulls over to the side of the road, and she looks at him, her eyes wide with fresh worry. A part of her wants to drive right back to her cousin and her friend, Finn knows.

"We can stop at a gas station in a little while," he tells her, and he smiles.

She nods. He leans forward, fingers brushing her chin, and tilts her face up. He smiles, waiting for her to smile too, and then he kisses her, and he can taste her fruity chapstick. "It'll be okay," he whispers. "This is our fresh start. We can do this."

"I know," she whispers, and she kisses him. Then she wipes her chapstick off his lips with her thumb as they share another soft smile. Moments later, she pulls the car back onto the road, flipping the turn signal on for the highway ramp up ahead.

He doesn't miss the soft smile that peaks out as she stares out the windshield.

"If we can find a map," he says, "do you know where you want to go?"

She shakes her head. "Any ideas?"

He starts to shake his head, too, but then he pauses and smiles.

"I've kind of always wanted to see the inside of a chapel in Las Vegas."

Rachel bites her lip. "I think I'd like that."

He rests his hand on her thigh and closes his eyes, she pulls onto the highway, and they head west.

**fin.**


	10. Chapter 10

a/n: this is something like a short story in itself, but I had a lot of ground to cover! and I should warn you: I threw something of a crack pairing into the ending, just for funsies, and I'm sorry if that upsets anyone!

* * *

><p>They stop in Cleveland to ditch the car.<p>

Finn finds this suspicious man named Pete, who'll pay cash with no questions asked.

Rachel is scared of Pete, but as soon as they leave the junkyard she rants and raves about how Pete only gave them eight thousand dollars for a car worth far more. Considering the fact that Pete will probably know what to do with a stolen car, Finn thinks eight thousand is plenty.

Still, he buys her a chocolate Frosty to cheer her up.

They buy tickets for a Greyhound out of Ohio that night, and Rachel falls asleep against his arm.

Two days later, she purchases the LeBaron from this used car place.

He drives the little green car, and she sits shotgun with a thousand maps in her lap, directing him, changing her mind about which exit or turn or highway he should take over and over again. She falls asleep eventually, though, and he stays on the road, driving with his left hand because her head rests against his right arm, his hand captive in her fingers' grasp.

He doesn't mind.

* * *

><p>For some reason, he keeps expecting something big to happen.<p>

He expects police to show up at the hotel door, expects to see his dad leaning against the car when he and Rachel walk out of a restaurant, expects to see his face on the news, expects _something_.

It keeps his stomach in knots day after day.

But nothing really does happen, not like any of that. They drive, and they stay in hotels, and they eat cheaply, because Rachel already keeps a tight budget — she even purchased a spiral notebook from a dollar store in Colorado for just that purpose. It isn't all stressful, though. They sing along to the radio. They talk. They sit in comfortable silence. And he learns little stuff about her, like that she sleeps on her back, head turned, hand curled in a fist under her chin.

Then, somewhere along the line, she starts to call him _Finn, honey_. And it's weird, but it's not. That's how all this is, really. It's unreal, but it's what their life is.

He catches her crying in the shower on the third night.

Before she even knows he was opening the bathroom door, he retreats and buys her a pack of Skittles from the vending machine on the first floor of the motel. He hands them to her when she emerges from the bathroom. Her smile makes him feel a little better, and her kiss tastes like sugar.

He misses weird things, like checking game scores on the internet and showers with good water pressure and the familiarity of waking up in his own room. But those stupid things don't really matter, and he knows he should appreciate this. He knows that this is like the few clear hours after the storm, when the air is still cool and the world seems strangely sweet.

And he knows what comes next: the hot and sticky and miserable aftermath.

But that isn't here yet.

They reach Las Vegas a little after a week, and he spends two hundred dollars on a ring. He knows she might be pissed, but he already feels crappy about how little money he has to spend on her, and he _needs_ to give her this. As it turns out, she only smiles tearfully and lets him slip on the ring as the state of Nevada declares them man and wife.

After that, they have to make a new plan yet again.

* * *

><p>"We can't simply drive to nowhere," she exclaims. "This won't last for long!"<p>

"I know," he murmurs, staring out at the road.

"And even if we pick somewhere, what will we do? Find an apartment? We'll be able to afford the first month of rent, but what then? We need to find jobs. How will we find jobs? We're high school drop outs on the run — what are we even doing?"

He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't say anything. It's silent for a tense moment, and then —

"I miss home," she whispers. "It's been two weeks, and I miss my dads. I hate them, but I still miss them so much. I miss my aunt. I miss Noah, and Becky, and Santana, and Kurt and —"

Her words are tearful. He still doesn't have a response, and he only grips the steering wheel tightly.

"I . . . this was such a stupid idea," she whispers.

"I know," he finally says. "And I miss home, too." He pauses, sighing. "It sucks that my best friends think I'm dead. It sucks that my _mom_ thinks I'm dead. It sucks that this is how everything played out. But as much as I miss home, Rachel, if we hadn't left, I'd miss you more."

It's quiet.

"I'm so in love with you," she tells him.

He smiles.

* * *

><p>He starts to fear less and less that the past might catch up with them.<p>

Before long, they settle in Seattle.

She finds a studio apartment, and they really can't afford a place like this, but he doesn't think Rachel can stomach anywhere worse. Plus, if they can finds jobs soon enough, they _will_ be able to afford this place.

The city is so insanely different from New York, but he likes it, likes the people, likes the food, likes how insanely different it is. He and Rachel buy furniture from Goodwill, and some clothes, too, and she models for him all the clothes she buys in the living room of their new apartment.

(Of course, he likes it better when she wears _his_ new clothes, his new t-shirt sliding off her shoulder as she straddles his lap, hair falling down over her shoulders, her thoroughly kissed mouth smiling down at him.)

It doesn't take him long to find work: he landscapes with a ragtag team of men that meet at five in the morning outside a gas station and then drive in trucks to the job. He earns minimum wage. It isn't a life, but it works for now, and he'll take it. He tells Rachel that, and she kisses him, and they celebrate steady work with a television from Goodwill.

She scrunches her nose up at the stain on the back, but he scrubs as much off as he can and then covers what remains with duck tape, and she rewards him with kisses all over his face. The television has pretty bad reception, but he can manage to find a few channels, and that's enough.

Rachel buys a Monopoly game for them to play. She always wins.

And time marches on.

He starts to learn her habits, her changing moods, the details that make up the big picture he fell in love with. He learns that she isn't ever grumpy in the morning, but if he keeps her up too late she turns cranky. He learns that she likes to give herself pep talks. He learns that she hates onions. He learns that her fingers are always cold. He learns that she hates to sneeze. He learns _her_.

He falls more in love with her, until he can't really remember what it would feel like _not_ to love her.

She still can't find a job, despite how hard she looks, and he hates that, because he knows how much _she_ hates that, and they _do_ need the money. But if he has to work extra hours to take care of her, then he will. He'll do anything to take care of her — _anything_. All she has to do is smile.

For now he makes enough to pay rent and buy food, but no more impromptu purchases for better living are allowed. He does buy her flowers at Pike Place Market for a treat on a rarely sunny Friday, though.

She puts a heart by the entry in her budget book.

* * *

><p>He wakes up to the smell of pancakes, which is pretty much the best thing ever.<p>

And he grins when he stumbles into the kitchen to see Rachel, in his boxers and his t-shirt, tapping her foot and singing softly along with the radio. She finally notices him, and, smiling, she holds up a plate of pancakes proudly.

They usually stick to cereal, 'cause that's cheaper, but she always makes pancakes on Sunday.

He loves Sundays. He never works on Sundays. He spends Sundays with Rachel.

He kisses her before he accepts a plate, and he can taste syrup on her lips. He makes his way through four pancakes before the song on the radio changes. He looks at her the same moment her eyes fly to his, a smile tugging on her lips.

"_Your lipstick stains on the front lobe of my left side brains_," she sings sweetly. "_I knew I wouldn't forget you, / And so I went and let you blow my mind."_

"_Your sweet moon beam, / The smell of you in every single dream I dream_," he starts, "_I knew when we collided, you're the one I have decided who's one of my kind_."

And they sing the chorus together, like they're back at that dance, so long ago but really not so long ago at all, not really, not in reality. _"Hey soul sister, ain't that Mr. Mister on the radio, stereo, / The way you move ain't fair, you know! / Hey soul sister, / I don't want to miss a single thing you do tonight. . . ."_

She holds out her hands for him, and he laughs and lets her pull him to his feet. She steals a few of his awesome dance moves, and then he twirls around, and then she _tries _to twirl him around, and they both end up stumbling, the fridge catching their fall.

He holds her off the ground and sings softly against her cheek, feeling her smile against his face.

_"The way you can cut a rug, / Watching you is the only drug I need, / So gangster, I'm so thug, / You're the only one I'm dreaming of! / You see I can be myself now finally, / In fact there's nothing I can't be, / I want the world to see you'll be with me. . . ."_

He loves Sundays, and he loves pancakes, and he loves Rachel most of all.

* * *

><p>"FINN! KILL IT! KILL IT BEFORE IT ESCAPES TO BRING BACK ITS FRIENDS!"<p>

He has no idea why she wants to scream murder at four in the morning, but he stumbles out of the bedroom, trying to think of what he could beat a robber over the head with, only for his sleepy eyes to go wide when he sees Rachel, eyes crazy, standing on the kitchen table and spraying Windex everywhere as a cockroach scuttles around on the kitchen floor.

He squashes the bug with a paper towel, throwing it out and then holding out his hands to help her off the table. "Thank you," she murmurs. "I came in here for a glass of water and then I saw it, and it looked right at me, and I could see murder in its beady little eyes."

"Sure, babe," he murmurs. "Come back to bed now."

He falls asleep to her ranting about how heinous cockroaches are, and how no matter how hard she tries, she simply can't love _all_ God's creatures, not if cockroaches are included, but they really shouldn't be because they're like miniature aliens that want to eat her and. . . .

* * *

><p>He comes home from work, kicking off his shoes and shoving them against the wall with his foot, calling out to her. He sets the bag of groceries down on the counter, washes his hands in the kitchen sink, splashing water over his face, and pulls a beer from the bag.<p>

His buddy Manuel used his ID to buy him the drinks. Finn bought some toothpaste, too, and some noodles and a red pepper, just like Rachel asked him to pick up. And he bought her some chocolate, the kind with the inspirational messages on the wrappers, 'cause she loves those.

He might maybe make more impulse purchase than her rules allow. He can't help it, though.

This isn't that easy, this life they've carved out of nothing for themselves. His work makes his bones _ache_, and he misses just sitting around, playing video games and hanging out with his friends. He misses, like, being a kid. How lame does that sound?

And do Sam and Mike know he's alive yet? Have they found out the truth? Kurt might've told them. But he might not have. Finn wonders if anyone knows the truth, or if the secret remains.

It seems to him as if it does, as if nothing has changed in their absence, as if New York City paused when he and Rachel left, and until they return the city will _stay_ on pause.

But that isn't the case, is it?

He pops open the beer, taking a swig. "Rachel?" He walks to the bedroom.

She's lying on the mattress that they bought for three hundred bucks, curled in a ball, blanket pulled up to her chin. She looks so _small_. He can hear her sniffling even though the sound of rain is magnified as it hits the skylight in the slanted ceiling above the bed. He sits down on the mattress, reaching out, touching a hand to her hip. "Babe?"

She turns to him, eyes rimmed in red. "I'm useless," she tells him, lip trembling.

"What? No, Rachel," he says, shaking his head. "No. Why would you even say that?"

"Because we've been here for _months_, and I still don't have a job! We've burned through all the money from Noah, and your work, your _exhausting_ work, barely pays the rent and keeps us fed, and if I had a job, _any_ job, we'd be fine, but —

"But I won't!" she cries, tears breaking free.

He isn't supposed to be on the sheets if he hasn't showered or changed out of his work clothes, but he crawls to the middle of the bed anyway and wraps her up in his arms.

"This is so stupid," she repeats, "so, _so_ stupid. We're _kids_, Finn! We can't do this!"

"We _are_ doing this," he says. "Look. We have an apartment. And we have clothes, and furniture, and food. You actually have a Washington license, and you know your way around the city and stuff. We're together, and we're okay. We're _married_."

She stares at him, a little hope in her gaze, and he smiles encouragingly.

"And — and we're still working out the kinks," he continues, "but it'll be fine. You might not have a high school degree, but you're still _you_. You still have all that talent. And, like —" He pauses, frowning a little to himself. "How come you haven't done that?" he asks. "I mean, like, auditioned for anything?"

She hasn't, not that she's told him.

"I don't know," she murmurs, a sigh in her voice. "It seems silly. This is the real world, and I can't expect to waste my time with pointless dreams. It's not like I'll ever be on Broadway now anyway." She won't look at him, and he kind of hates that she would ever talk like that. It's not _Rachel_.

"You could still go on Broadway," he says. "We might end up back in New York before long —"

But she shakes her head. "You don't believe that, Finn, I know you don't. The way you talk about your mom, your friends, Kurt — you don't think we'll go back, do you? You won't say it to me, because you don't want to make me feel bad, but I can be realistic, too. And, realistically, we're probably never going back to New York, are we?"

He sighs, and she finally looks at him again.

"I don't know," he admits. "I don't usually, like, think that far ahead. But, Rachel, even if we don't ever go back to New York, or to Broadway, you still like to sing, don't you? And you're so good at it. Like, the best in the world. And maybe only me and some, like, theatre people in Seattle will ever know that, but shouldn't you do what you want?"

"Shouldn't you?" she asks softly.

"I want _you_," he says quietly, and she starts to smile, but did he just say that he wanted — "Wait, that's not what I meant. I didn't mean I want to _do_ you, I just mean —"

She laughs. "I know what you mean," she assures, cutting him off with a quick kiss. "And I'll try a few auditions. I _have_ missed the stage. I just — I don't want you to resent me because you're working so hard at something you don't even enjoy and I'm —"

He cuts her off this time. "I could never resent you," he says. "Besides, once you're, like, starring in musicals and stuff, _you_'ll be the one supporting me."

She bites her lip, eyes teary. "How do you always know what to say?"

He brushes a hand over her hair. "It's this girl," he says, lowering his voice and leaning close to whisper the words to her. "I'm in love with her, and I even married her. She just — she inspires me, you know?" He hugs her as fresh tears splash down her face, and she presses her face into his neck. "You were the first person that ever made me really _care_ about something," he whispers.

She kisses his jaw, his cheek, his mouth, holding his face in her hands. He slips his own hands under her shirt. She draws back, and he tries to pull off her shirt, but she laughs and swats his hands away. "We can't," she tells him. "You'll soil the sheets, Finn, honey! You need to take a shower, or half a front lawn will be on our sheets!"

He groans, even as she nudges his hip, as if to push him off the bed.

"Fine," he says, sighing dramatically. "We can take a shower if you really want."

Her brow creases. "I said _you_ —" She squeals when he hoists her up suddenly. "I need to make dinner!" she exclaims, laughing. He thinks dinner can wait, and he tells her so as he carries her to the bathroom, managing to tug off her sweatpants while he walks.

He can multitask like that.

* * *

><p>Across the table, Jack Anderson sighs.<p>

But Kurt doesn't break his gaze. "I know this is a lot to believe, but everything I told you is the truth. And I want my friends to come home. I miss them, and they _deserve_ to come home. But before they can, this war needs to end."

"Christopher Hudson is among the best police officers I've ever known," Mr. Anderson says.

"He still _killed_ a man, and he beat a kid nearly to death," Kurt replies. "That kid can testify. His wife can testify to other crimes. And we have that recording my friend Sam extracted from him. I don't know exactly how the organization of the New York Police Department works, but surely some form of recourse exists for police corruption, and with the evidence I have —"

"That's all circumstantial evidence," Mr. Anderson cuts in. "Look, kid —"

"You can't look the other way to a police officer who commits heinous crimes, no matter how much you like him," Kurt insists, and then he pauses, considering. "I'm friends with Mercedes Jones, you know," he says. "Her mother is Lorraine Jones. Of the _New York Times_? I'm sure an exposé on the corruption of the police force would make for an _excellent_ read, especially with the tale of star-crossed lovers and some facts on the Polish mob included to add a little _spice_."

"Are you — are you trying to blackmail me?" Mr. Anderson asks, and he looks more amused than anything else. He reminds Kurt of his son in that moment, with that same smile playing on his lips.

Kurt shrugs. "I'm trying to make the facts clear, is all."

Mr. Anderson leans back in his seat. "You know," he says. "I've always liked Lorraine Jones."

* * *

><p>He looks so gleeful when he runs into the house, waving the flier around.<p>

It's for a karaoke night at this bar, and apparently whoever earns the most applause wins a cash prize. She knows they'll have this in the bag, of course, and it's exciting to have a reason to do her hair and put on make-up and go out on the town with him, so to speak. It's like a date.

They haven't been on a date, not a _real_ date, in ages.

The bar is packed, but Finn keeps a hold of her hand and weaves his way through the crowds, and they try to put their names down for a duet, but when that isn't allowed, Rachel signs herself up. "I want to see you on stage anyway," Finn murmurs into her ear.

Most of the people who troupe across the stage do _not_ impress Rachel.

But soon enough she takes center stage, and she immediately finds Finn in the crowd, and she focuses on him before she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She chooses a Katy Perry song, because who better pleases a crowd than Katy Perry? And she belts her heart out.

The bar goes crazy, cheering and clapping, and she beams out at them all as she sings.

This is where she _belongs_, and her eyes find Finn once more as she finishes her song.

She knows from her last note that the prize is hers, and more than a few people tell her so as she skips off stage, and she nods and smiles and graciously accepts their praise. She can't wait until she can _truly_ return to the stage, just like Finn said she should. The prize is a hundred dollars.

It's a good night.

* * *

><p>The moment she sees the sign, she makes up her mind.<p>

If the theatre needs part-time help in the ticket booth, then they need look no further than Rachel Hudson. She tells the manager of the theatre that. He blinks blankly and asks for her resume, and she replies that she can bring him a copy, but anything he really needs to know she can tell right at that moment. "I don't have much experience in the work force, I'll admit," she says.

"But I know everything there is to know about theatre, and I'll be an absolute asset, I promise."

He tells her to bring a copy of her resume. She tells him her life history: how she grew up in New York, how she aspired for Broadway, how she won several awards in various school and extracurricular productions, how she couldn't finish high school due to extenuating circumstances.

"Extenuating circumstances?" he repeats.

He looks like an old soul, she decides, with his dark blonde hair in a bowl cut and his round glasses and his unexpressive expression, so she decides to go for broke. She _needs_ this job.

"My father is a mob boss who tried to kill my boyfriend, the son of a police chief with whom he had a bloody rivalry, so my boyfriend and I faked out deaths and ran. We're married now."

He simply stares at her.

"You can Google me if you like," she tells him. "Rachel Berry. I died in a car accident."

"I still need to see a resume."

She returns a few hours later, resume in hand. It isn't very impressive, but she thought of a few more key comments to make, such as her excellent people skills and how successfully she sold Girl Scout cookies for almost five years. He sighs when she appears in his office.

"I looked you up," he says. She waits for more. He doesn't say anything more.

"I _really_ need this job," she tells him.

He sighs yet again. "How about a trial basis? We'll say nine dollars an hour to start, and if you prove you can handle the job after two weeks, I'll offer you ten dollars and a little more security."

"Done. Deal. That's — that's a done deal." She nods firmly, trying not to smile too widely. "It will be a pleasure to work with you, and you will not be disappointed, Mr. — Mr. —"

"Brad."

"Mr. — Brad."

"I'll need you here tomorrow by three for training," he says. And she only nods, trying to hold back her squeals, and she succeeds until she steps out onto the street, where she proceeds to squeal her heart out, dancing around, hugging herself, and beaming at the homeless man a few feet away.

* * *

><p>As he does on whims every now and then, Finn brings home flowers for her that night.<p>

The pretty tulips end up trampled under his own feet, though, when she jumps him and announces that she has a job, a _real job_, with bad hours and hourly pay, but a job, and at a _theatre_, and he laughs into her mouth and kisses her and tells her how proud of her he is.

As she pulls his t-shirt up, he starts to kick off his boots-but she tells him to keep them on. She kind of likes his boots. He only laughs more and kisses her more, and they have sex on the floor of their living room, because this is their apartment, and they can, and that's that.

As they eat sticky banana bread on the floor, the sky a powdery pink as the sun sets outside the window, the last rays warm against her bare back, the real world doesn't feel so very unconquerable anymore to Rachel, not with Finn.

For months, honestly, it didn't feel real, living in Seattle with him, with her _husband_; it didn't feel permanent, not until suddenly it was, and now the idea of any other kind of life seems strange.

This is their home, with furniture all their own and jobs that pay the rent, and this is their _life_.

The days begin when Finn wakes her up with soft kisses along her neck, and the room is dark but the curtains glow from the sunlight they hide, and she smiles sleepily against his cheek as he spreads her legs. And then he works and she works, and they fill their nights with each other, and with their new friends, like Grace, who has bright purple hair and wants to be a music teacher, or like Billy, who roots against the Indians just to annoy Finn but always calls Rachel ma'am.

And she likes their life, likes Seattle, likes to make coffee for Finn, because she loves the smell but hates the taste, and now she can smell all the coffee she wants as she hands a mug to him.

She likes how calm and casual Seattle is.

She tries to be calm and casual, too, and not worry about money or auditions or the moment her daddy knocks on the door. That doesn't always work so well. But then Finn sits on the couch to watch the game, and she sits on the floor, her back to his knees. And as she does her toenails, he absently toys with the ends of her hair, and all those worries feel less important in comparison.

They celebrate a year together on a Tuesday, the anniversary of the Halloween dance that brought them together.

And life carries on.

* * *

><p>The apartment doesn't really have a balcony, only a smoking deck, but if they open the door wide and pull chairs right up, they can almost pretend they're on a porch. It becomes habit to sit like that with beers, talking softly, knees touching under a shared blanket.<p>

The first time they nearly fall short on rent, even with their combined incomes, they sit like that, watching the sun set, staring out at the city lights as the night turns dark and cold.

"We could always move," he says quietly. "I'm sure it won't be hard to find a cheaper place."

"We'd have to move out of the city," she replies, "or somewhere dangerous. I like it here."

"I do too, but if we . . . but if we hadn't sold the couch," he says, "we would have been evicted. We would have been _homeless_."

"Mr. Lewinski might have been more lenient than that," she tells him.

He doesn't say anything.

"You know," she says carefully, "some people do everything right. They actually manage to graduate high school, and they go to college, and they marry after years together instead of weeks, and they don't take any stupid risks. But the world can still instantly turn their life upside down."

He looks at her.

"You never really know what will happen next. We made rent this time, and we'll worry about next time when next time comes, okay? I mean, I might have a starring role this time next month!" She smiles, and he starts to smile, too, nodding.

He leans over and kisses her, his breath warm, and he tastes like beer.

* * *

><p>Two months later, she <em>does<em> earn her starring role.

It's in _RENT_ as Maureen, her very first role on stage.

And it's at her theatre, the place that gave her a job, the place the she loves like a kind of second home. And it isn't until after _months_ on the job that Rachel learns Brad is not only the manager but also the _owner_ of the theatre. With his support, she lands an audition—and a lead role.

(After that, she learns very quickly that if she talks enough, Brad gives her what she wants.)

Finn starts her standing ovation on opening night. She cries, ruining her stage make-up, even as he hoots and claps and grins, holding her gaze despite the bright stage light that surrounds her.

The pay for her first role isn't much, but after that she becomes a regular on the stage, a regular in the theatre company, always in one of the productions on stage, and as amazing as the lights of Broadway would be, she feels happy with this, with fame in the theatre circles of Seattle, with a job that pays her to do what she loves alongside friends as talented as she is, with an adoring audience to applaud for her every weekend.

Her friend Cassandra plays the Joanne to Rachel's Maureen, and Cassie is the first to call Rachel affectionately by the nickname Huddy, simply because she likes to give nicknames. And at some point _everybody_ starts to call that, her other castmates, her director.

Soon, Brad is the only one who calls her Ms. Hudson.

Finn likes it. "Your nickname is from my last name," he says, smiling a little to himself as they walk down the street. She takes his hand, pulling his gaze to her.

"From _our_ last name," she says. His smile widens, dimples peeking out.

* * *

><p>He has the radio on when she arrives homes, and she finds him in the bathroom.<p>

"Are you taking a bubble bath?" she asks, tilting her head and smirking, amused at the sight of her giant husband in a tub full of bubbles.

"It's not a bubble bath," he protests. "I think I sprained something in my shoulder this afternoon when we put in an irrigation system over at this elementary school, and the hot water helps."

"And the bubbles are for show?" she says. "If you want, I can light some aroma therapy candles."

He makes a face at her, and she laughs, kneeling down beside him. "What hurts?" He shifts slightly to show her, and she finds the knot in his upper back, his skin warm and wet under her hand as she presses her thumb and tries to massage the muscle. "How's work?" she asks.

His job is new, more official, with health benefits to boot, and Rachel loves that a small company actually heard good things about Finn from the side work he did and recruited him. But this work is different than his old, minimum wage work; it's harder, really, and she worries about him.

He shrugs. "It's fine."

She leans back on her heels and runs a hand over his hair. "I'm about to write Kurt. I bought a postcard this afternoon, and Grace is spending the weekend with her parents in California, so she can mail it for us. You want me to say anything for you?"

"Nah, I'm cool, but — is all that really necessary? Like, sending mail from different places and stuff. I mean, if anybody wanted to find us, it wouldn't be that hard. It's not like we're really in hiding or using cool fake identities or anything."

She sighs. "I know. It makes me feel better, though." It's quiet for a moment, and when he catches her eyes he offers a small smile. She smiles, too. "If they ever do find out we're alive," she murmurs, "and they come looking, they can't really do anything. We have our own life now."

It's the truth.

She hasn't seen her fathers in nearly two years now, and she doesn't miss them the way she used to, or hate them the way she came to, or fear them the way she wouldn't admit she did. She simply thinks of them sometimes, a little sadly, a little curious, and she wonders if she and Finn will ever go back. They have a life here now, yes, a family with each other, new friends to call their own.

But she does miss Noah, and Santana, and Kurt, and New York City.

"I know," he murmurs, smiling softly. She thinks he really does know it all, does _understand_ it all.

She starts to stand, leaning over the tub to give him a quick kiss.

"You know," he says, "you're welcome to join me." He wiggles his eyebrows.

"See, now you're just trying to reassert your masculinity," she teases, and moments later she screams as he snares her around the waist and pulls her, fully dressed, into the tub. The water splashes everywhere. She smacks his arm, wiping water from her eyes. He only laughs as she exclaims over the mess and her ruined clothes.

He looks so proud of himself, and she rolls her eyes, huffing and managing to find her footing in the tub so she can stand up in her soaked clothes. He protests even as he smiles — and that turns into a bigger grin when she pulls off her wet sweater and tosses it to the sink.

She'll deal with that later.

She ends up falling when she tries to take off her skirt, and she splashes him even more, knees him in the thigh-and she yelps when she bangs her elbow against the tub.

But Finn kisses that better.

* * *

><p>They buy a townhouse three days before her twenty-second birthday, and Finn puts a bow on the front door.<p>

It takes a while to make the house their home. He cajoles his buddies into helping him strip up the awful carpets in the living room, and she helps him paint the kitchen yellow, and they buy these green ivy curtains at Belk that match perfectly, and Finn bleaches the grouts in bathroom tiles.

She surprises him for Christmas with a new television, still a little smaller and outdated than the best available, but much nicer than their old Goodwill television. He's excited as she'd hoped he would be, even more so when she lets him order a cable package. They have internet access now, too, and he buys an old Mac desktop from a lady whose front yard he irrigates.

It all feels so grown up, she thinks, more so than when they set up a bank account of their own or ordered their own checks or paid taxes for the first time. This is their _house_, the kind of house that people who run away from home and don't graduate high school and marry in Las Vegas when they're eighteen years old aren't supposed to have.

(This is the kind of house a child can grow up in.)

Her little pink Canon camera, among the very few possessions that she took with her when they left home, has documented the last five years of their life, and she finally orders copies of favorite pictures of them, and Finn helps her pick out frames at Target to decorate the whole house.

This final touch will make this house their _home_, she explains.

They spend an entire Sunday hanging up all the framed pictures. The last picture to hang is a surprise. By then, Finn is exhausted, but Rachel carefully watches his face as she hands him he dark brown frame with the picture inside. She found that on her camera, left over from another life.

She had a lot of old pictures, actually, but this is the _gem_ of them all.

It's supposed to be of Kurt, talking with Puck and Santana in McKinley, his eyes bright and his smile wide, even as Puck makes a face at the camera and Santana rolls her eyes. But the picture features Mike and Sam, too, walking past in the hallway, as oblivious of the camera as Rachel was of them when she snapped the photo. Sam is in the middle of some explanation, his hands waving wildly, while Mike sports half a grin.

It's a picture of their friends, back before they even knew each other.

Finn stares at the photo for a long time. "This is cool," he finally murmurs.

"It is," she replies softly, and they hang the picture on the kitchen wall, right beside their wedding picture and the picture of them at the Pike Place Market on her twenty-first birthday a year ago.

* * *

><p>Her stomach rolls.<p>

"Finn, _what_ is that smell?"

Fresh from the shower, he looks at her in surprise, wearing nothing but boxers, drying out his wet hair with a towel. "I don't smell anything," he says, frowning. He sniffs. "I don't. . . ."

"It's making me sick," she replies. She takes a sniff herself, and, _dear, God!_ She claps a hand to her mouth, even as her head turns heavy in the worst possible way. She scrambles off the bed, and waves at him to move, and, yes, that smell is definitely from the bathroom.

He touches his hand to her back, concerned. "That's it," she announces, her hand to his chest to keep him at arm's length. "Your shampoo. It's making me sick. You need to take another shower, wash that mess out, and use some better shampoo. What did you buy yourself? I need a glass of water."

She stalks out of the room.

"It's Head and Shoulders!" he calls. "And you bought it!"

She did _not_ buy whatever foul thing he decided to put in his hair.

* * *

><p>They put the pieces together eventually, and they visit the doctor.<p>

A few weeks later, as soon as Finn falls asleep, she slips quietly out of bed.

She takes a throw pillow from the neat stack on the chair by the bed, and she tiptoes to the bathroom, closing the door behind her softly before she turns the light on. She slips the pillow under her night gown and up to rest on her stomach, tries to adjust the shape, and then she looks at herself in the mirror. She runs a hand over the pillow. She turns to the side. She smiles a little.

She puts one hand on her back, and one on her stomach, and she wonders how long until she looks like this. She's only a little over two months along now, so she has a few more months to wait, doesn't she?

Finn knocks suddenly on the door. "Rachel? You okay?" He pushes the door open before she can stop him, before she can even yank the pillow out from under her night gown. She opens her mouth to say something, but she can't think of anything. He starts to smile softly, though.

"I wanted to see what . . ." She shrugs a little.

He comes over to stand behind her, and he places his hand over hers on top of her pillow stomach.

She looks at him in the mirror, and he smiles back at her. His hair is messy, sticking up in the back, and his eyes are still hazy with sleep, but he kisses her temple. Then he holds out his hand to nobody. "I'm Finn Hudson," he says. "Nice to meet you. And this is my wife, Rachel. She's about six months along now."

Rachel giggles and leans into him, and they stand quietly, smiling at the mirror, at each other.

* * *

><p>Curious, she looks up her father on the internet.<p>

Finn lies asleep in bed beside her, and the room is dark, and she somehow feels guilty as she types his name into Google. She doesn't know why she suddenly thought of him, but she supposes the thought of her own little girl makes her remember when she was his little girl. That all seems like ages ago, though, like a whole other lifetime. She hasn't even written Kurt or Puck in months. Or has it been a year? More than a year? She can't remember the last time she wrote them.

A lot of hits come up, news articles, and her heart races as she realizes the stories talk about his prosecution, because her father is on _trial_. She can't believe it.

And then she finds a story from the New York Times, and her heart stops in her chest as she reads: it's the whole story, _their_ story, about how her uncle, a mobster, killed a police officer, and in revenge Chris Hudson killed him, and an undeclared war started, about how Finn and Rachel were raised, about how they faked their own deaths —

She shakes Finn awake to show him.

They read through more articles together. His father is in prison, apparently, and has been for the last year, and hers is still on trial, and the whole affair is chaotic and scary and simply _unreal_. Across the country, everyone they know is caught up in this and has been for the last six years.

"You think we should go back?" Finn asks quietly.

Over the baby monitor, Sophie starts to cry, saving Rachel from an answer.

Finn kisses her quickly on the temple before he climbs out of bed, and he returns moments later with Sophie in tow. She squirms in his arms, cheeks red and wet from tears, little limbs flailing all over the place as she tries to suck on his finger, and he hands her over to Rachel.

It's quiet as Rachel nurses her, and she gazes down at the tiny face of her tiny baby, with her thin layer of dark her and her little fists curling and uncurling, and Rachel thinks her tiny baby chin is already like Finn's, no matter how much her friends at the theatre tease her for that assertion.

"I don't want to go back," Rachel whispers. "Not yet, anyway. Not now."

Finn nods, murmuring agreement with Rachel, but his eyes steadfastly on Sophie the whole time. He traces a finger up the arch of her tiny foot, so that Sophie curls her tiny toes, and he smiles to himself, laughing a little when Sophie randomly, wildly kicks his hand.

Rachel touches a hand to his shoulder, drawing his gaze to her.

"Someday," he says.

She nods. "Someday."

* * *

><p>Her performance in <em>Hello, Dolly<em>! might be her best yet.

Finn says she steals the show. He always says that, though. And she knows she always does, too, _especially_ in her interpretation of the classic Barbra Steisand role. The show has been on the stage for a little over two months when her favorite security guard, Ben, approaches her backstage.

"A man is here to see you," he says. "He claims he went to high school with you."

She smiles to herself, wiping the last of her stage make-up off with a baby wipe. She knows it must be Finn waiting for her. He likes to do silly things like that, asking her for autographs to tease her. "Oh, does he?" she asks, trying to share an amused and knowing smile with Ben.

But Ben only nods. "He says he's your brother-in-law. Kurt Hummel."

She freezes. "What?"

"You know him? He's about my height, maybe an inch shorter, has dark brown hair, wearing a purple bow-tie. Seems like an okay fellow, but could be the stalker type. You want me to —?"

She shakes her head. "No, I — I know him. He's Finn's — Finn's brother. Stepbrother. I think."

Ben looks curious, but Rachel only points at the door. "He's right out there?" Her heart pounds in her chest as Ben nods, and she takes a deep breath and heads down the hall, slipping out into the theatre, to the aisle in front of the stage. Her eyes land on him in an instant.

That's most certainly Kurt Hummel, fashionably dressed from his shoes to his purple bow-tie, tapping his hand absently against his thigh — probably a nervous tick. She feels her eyes burn with tears, and then she laughs a little, because Kurt Hummel is here in Seattle, is at her theatre, is right in front of her.

It only takes him a moment to catch sight of her, and he straightens, his own eyes going wide.

Hesitantly, he starts to smile at her, and, laughing, she runs the last few steps to him. She hugs him tightly, and he starts to laugh too, even as her tears spring free and she squeezes him still tighter.

She pulls back and puts her hands on his shoulders. "Kurt," she says. "You're here."

"I'm here," he repeats.

And she laughs again and pulls him in for another hug.

* * *

><p>It's been eight years.<p>

Almost to the week, this time eight years ago, he watched Finn and Rachel drive off. And now he's actually come to Seattle, following a postcard that's almost three years old, and here she is. She looks older, of course, looks more mature, her face thinner, her hair curled and barely brushing her shoulders. And she wears a wedding ring, but he knew that from her vague postcards.

"You were amazing up on stage," he tells her. "You're even more talented than I remember."

"Aw," she says, and she shrugs, titling her head, her hands still holding his as she continues to beam at him. "I'm just so happy to see you! I can't believe you're here! I've missed you, Kurt Hummel."

He smiles softly. "I've missed you, too, Rachel Berry."

"Rachel Hudson," she corrects, biting her lip. "And I supposed you'd like to see Finn, wouldn't you? You called yourself my brother-in-law. Does that mean . . .?"

"They celebrated their sixth anniversary last May," Kurt says, nodding.

Her smile is still so sweet as she stares at him like she simply can't tear her eyes away, and then she laughs and hugs him yet again, and she invites him backstage so she can collect her coat and purse and they can drive out to her house, to Finn, to _their_ house. She starts to chatter about her life over the past eight years, then, and she seems so happy and assured and grown up.

She's so much like the eighteen-year-old he knew, yet she's nothing like her.

And Finn sounds like such an adult now, too. He even owns his own business, Rachel says.

They've had this whole life all these years, when to him they seemed frozen in time, kept away from the real world.

He fills her in on his life these last few years, skipping over the hard parts, at least for now. He talks about NYU, about how he now works low on the totem pole at a fashion magazine. She asks about Puck, and Kurt fills her in: her cousin married last year, and Rachel squeals, delighted, when he tells her that Santana Lopez is now Santana Puckerman.

Their house looks so sweet, painted peach with white shutters and a big porch, and she explains how they lived in an apartment and then a townhouse before they bought this place just last year, and his nerves flare up again as she parks the car and leads him up the walkway.

"I saved the best for last," she tells him.

He frowns, confused, but she only unlocks the door. "I'm home!" she calls. He follows her in, eyes roving over the little rose bud wallpaper and the thick white carpet and — and the little girl who nearly skids to a stop when her wide eyes land on Kurt.

"Kurt," Rachel says, grinning from ear to ear, "meet your niece, Sophie."

With dark eyes and dark hair and Angelina Ballerina pajamas, Sophie only blinks at Kurt.

"You have a daughter," he says. That shouldn't be such a surprise, but somehow —

"I have two actually," Rachel tells him, and she picks up Sophie, who can't be more than three years old and who simply stares shyly at Kurt. She murmurs something to her mother, and Rachel murmurs back his name, calls him _Uncle Kurt_, and kisses the pink little cheek of her daughter.

Rachel has a daughter.

And then she walks down the hallway and into a living room, and Kurt sees Finn, stretched out on the ground in front of a Barbie castle, a Barbie in his hand and a baby asleep on a pillow beside him. He glances up, starting to say something, and his jaw literally drops a little when he sees Kurt.

"He came to see my show tonight," Rachel says, clearly pleased to present her surprise guest.

"This is Uncle Kurt, Daddy," Sophie murmurs.

"Yeah," Finn says, starting to smile. "Yeah, it is." And he laughs in disbelief. "_Kurt_!" He pushes himself to his feet, and Kurt half laughs and half cries as his giant stepbrother pulls him into a hug. Like Rachel, Finn looks a little older, too, with a thinner build and a five o'clock shadow, but he laughs and hugs exactly like he did eight years ago.

Rachel sets Sophie down to pick up the baby — Haley, Finn introduces, four months old.

"I've missed you, man," Finn tells him, his hand on Kurt's shoulder.

Kurt wipes his tears. "I've missed you, too."

* * *

><p>It takes a little while, but eventually, after Sophie and Haley have both been put to bed, they talk.<p>

"I'm sorry I haven't written in years," Rachel tells Kurt. "I don't even know why I stopped. I suppose _life_ just happened, and the more time went by, the further away New York seemed. I really missed you, though."

"We both have," Finn adds. This is so weird to see Kurt. It makes him feel like a kid again.

"It's fine," Kurt says. "I still managed to find you, didn't I?" He smiles.

"Yeah, and um, don't get me wrong," Finn starts, "I'm _totally_ psyched to see you, dude, but — but can I ask why? Like, why _now_? I mean, me and Rachel, we read some stuff on the internet —"

"About the trials," Kurt says.

Finn nods. "Is it all over now?"

"It is," Kurt admits. "It took years, but it's finally finished. It all came to a close just a few months ago. Your father has been in prison these last few years, but _your_ father," Kurt pauses, looking at Rachel, "he was only just now finally convicted in federal court for fraud and human trafficking. It took so long because they made his case the spearhead of a huge sweep against organized crime."

"My father is in prison," Rachel murmurs, disbelief in her voice.

"I doubt he'll end up doing more than ten years," Kurt says, "but, yes, for now, he's locked up. Ken Tanaka is away for life on several murder counts, and a few of your father's other minions are, too. The family business has officially fallen to pieces. I don't think anyone took up the mantle."

Rachel nods, looking as if this is all too much, and Finn takes her hand, squeezing it.

It's quiet.

"I know you have a life here," Kurt says. "I'm sort of stunned at what an amazing life you have, actually. But I . . . I came here to tell you that you can come home — or at least visit, if you want. It's safe. And if you need any more reason, I'd actually like to — I'd like to invite you to my wedding."

"Your wedding?" Rachel exclaims. "Kurt! You're engaged?"

He nods, blushing. "And this is the real twist." He looks at Finn. "It was a little less than a year ago that my serious boyfriend asked me to marry him, and he's actually an old friend of yours."

Finn frowns. He's pretty sure the only gay friend he ever had was Kurt.

"It's Sam," Kurt says.

"What? Sam Evans? No! He's totally straight!"

Kurt laughs, and Finn looks at Rachel. "Did you —?"

Rachel shakes her head. "It's news to me," she says, smiling. "But congratulations, Kurt! And of course we'll —" She glances at Finn again, and he holds her gaze, nodding. "Of course we'll come to your wedding," she says. "We wouldn't miss it for anything."

* * *

><p>Finn has never actually been on a plane before.<p>

It's kind of exciting, but he's also super nervous, and he clutches Haley closely to his chest as he walks through the metal detectors and then heads onto the plane. Rachel gives Finn the window seat, and he sits with Haley on his lap, nervous and staring out at the landing stretch.

Kurt gives him gum to chew as the plane lifts off, and Finn tries to focus on Rachel, reading a book to Sophie to distract her. He falls asleep eventually, Haley sleeping easily against his chest.

And when he wakes up, the sky outside is dark. They only have another half hour before the plane lands.

Kurt and Rachel talk in soft voices. "— but Santana finally told Puck that when he said _I'm waiting for Rachel to come home_, he actually meant _I'm an asshole and afraid of commitment,_ and two weeks later he thrust a ring box at her, and that was that."

"That sounds like them," Rachel says. It's quiet, and Finn glances at Sophie, snoozing with head in Rachel's lap. "I'm sorry we didn't try to come home earlier," Rachel says suddenly. "We could have, I know that. We probably could have returned only a year or two after we left."

"Probably," Kurt agrees.

"But even though I was raised in New York," Rachel says, "I _grew up_ in Seattle. It's home. And I guess I thought if we left, if we came back, we'd be back where we started, we'd return to the mess we left behind, and. . . ." She trails off.

"You didn't _leave behind_ a mess," Kurt says. "You _escaped_ a mess, and I'm glad. I'm glad you did, and I'm glad you found this whole life in Seattle, and I already adore my nieces. It's okay, Rachel. It all worked out now, see? It's the way it should be now." He has his hand in hers.

"I think Finn wants to talk to his dad," Rachel says. "But what about my dad . . . ?"

"That's up to you. If you don't want to see him because you're scared, then I have to tell you that there's no reason to be scared. He doesn't have any power over you anymore. But if you don't want to see him because you simply don't want to see him, because you don't _need_ to see him — then don't go to see him. You don't owe him anything, Rachel."

"Oh, Kurt," she says, tears in her voice, "I've _really_ missed you."

"It's a wonder you ever survived without me."

Finn smiles and lets himself fall back asleep for a few more minutes before Haley starts to fuss.

* * *

><p>New York looks the same.<p>

Sam picks them up from the airport, laughing as he hugs Rachel and then Finn, and he makes faces at Sophie, kissing Kurt quickly before they head out of the airport. Finn is totally weirded out, but this is _Sam_, his best friend, and the weird factor dissolves on the drive to the Hummel house as Sam talks about NYU and his work as a personal trainer and what does Finn think about the _Spiderman_ remake trilogy?

Finn didn't even know how much he missed Sam until now.

And then Sam pulls the Ford into the parking lot of a small brownstone house, and Finn stumbles out of the car moments after his mother stumbles out of the house. She looks different, her hair cut differently, but she still looks like his _mom_, and tears flood her face as she wraps her arms around him, rocking back and forth.

"Oh, sweet boy," she murmurs, "my sweet, sweet boy."

He presses his face into her hair, holding her tightly.

But then his mother cups his face in her hands and she smiles at him. "Look at you. All grown up. I've missed you so much."

"Yeah," he says, "I've missed you, too. And I'm — I'm sorry about the way I left —"

"Oh, no," she dismisses, waving her hand. "That's old news. You're home now. And you brought my daughter-in-law!" She laughs, her eyes travelling to Rachel. He can literally see her face light up when she catches sight of Sophie and Haley. "And are those —?" She looks at Finn.

"Yeah, Mom," he says. "Those are your granddaughters."

Fresh tears well in her eyes, and she smiles. "Oh, goodness."

As she fawns over the girls, giving Rachel a tight hug too, Finn greets Burt, who claps him on the shoulder and welcomes him back to the city. He offers him a beer, too, and Finn nods gratefully. The house is amazing, and he sees pictures of himself littered everywhere.

It's at the top of the stairs that he finds the framed newspaper article: "Star-Crossed Lovers Fake Death and Align the Stars for Themselves" and their yearbook photos top the article, and he shakes his head as his eyes scan the article.

"You two were celebrities," Sam tells him.

Finn nods. "I'm sorry," he says. He needs to say that to a lot of people.

"Nah," Sam says. "I'm over it. I _might_ have to punch you in the face at some point, just to, you know, deal with some old anger issues —" He grins, and Finn laughs. "But, seriously, dude, I'm just happy you're alive. I've been that way ever since Kurt spilled the beans. Mike, too."

"How is Mike?"

"Married," Sam says. "You remember Tina Cohen-Chang?"

"No way — he really finally made a move?"

"He had some pretty heavy inspiration," Sam teases. "Yeah. They live upstate now. I'll give you his number. He'll be down for the wedding, though. And he has a kid now, too. A boy."

"That's crazy."

"_That_'s crazy? You've managed to reproduce _twice_ since I last saw you!"

* * *

><p>It's pretty awesome to see his mom and Burt and Sam again, and to watch them with his girls.<p>

But when Rachel sees Puck, the look on her face alone nearly does Finn in. She spots Puck from across the parking lot at the restaurant where they're supposed to meet, and she takes off into a run, tackling him and nearly knocking him backwards. He laughs and hugs her, and Santana pulls her away from him to claim a hug, too.

Puck looks good, the mohawk exchanged for a buzz cut, and he nods at Finn.

His eyes fall quickly to Haley, and then to Sophie, and Finn totally pretends not to see when Puck tears up a little, because he knows how easily his daughters can bring grown men to tears.

* * *

><p>That night, sitting on the outdoor patio, Rachel asks Puck about her dads.<p>

They're all there, not just Finn, Rachel, Puck and Santana, but Kurt and Sam, too, and his mom and Burt as well, and everybody stiffens a little when Rachel ends a lull in the conversation with her questions. "What happened to my papa?"

Sighing, Puck answers quietly. "He lives in an apartment now, I think. I haven't seem him since the last day of the trial. He and your dad didn't split, but they had some problems."

"It was over you," Santana adds.

Rachel frowns. "Over me?"

"Yeah, Uncle Leroy claimed, after everything came out, he claimed that you were as much his daughter as you were Uncle Hiram's, and that he'd lost you, too, and it was Uncle Hiram's fault." He leans back in his seat. "I don't know. It was a mess. My mom was messed up —"

"How is she?" Rachel interrupts. "I can't believe I haven't asked earlier."

"She's fine. She moved down to Florida with this accountant she met, taking Becca with her. She'll be up for the wedding, though. Kurt invited her out of courtesy, and I don't think she planned to come, but then she booked her plane ticket as soon as I told her you'd be here. She missed you, too, Rach. We all did."

It's quiet.

"And daddy is in prison," Rachel finally says. "I still haven't decided if I want to see him or not."

"You don't have to," Puck murmurs.

She nods. "I know. But . . . but he's still my family, even after everything."

"Yeah," Puck starts, "you know those people that say you only have one family? Load of bull. Look around you, Rachel. This is your family. We're your family, because we're the people you _chose_ to be your family. You don't need him to see him if you don't want to see him.

"And, hey, maybe you should go see your mom instead."

"My — my mom?" Rachel asks. Finn frowns. Her mom has been dead for years.

"She's alive, too," Kurt pipes up. "That came out in the trial. She actually testified against your father, came into town. I met her. She was nice. She looks _so_ much like you."

"That's not . . . that's not possible. She _did_ die. It was a car accident. She died."

"Just like you did?" Santana asks.

"Uncle Hiram lied," Puck finally explains. "He and Uncle Luke made a play to take over after Grandpa died, right? And they pretty much slaughtered the other two big Polish families. Your mom came from one of those families, and she was pissed. She tried to leave — and to take you with her, but Uncle Hiram said it was one or the other. She could leave, but she couldn't take you with her. You were his, and if she wanted to keep you, she had to stay."

"So she left," Rachel whispers. Her eyes flicker to Sophie, half asleep against Finn's mom, and to Haley, completely out cold in her carrier in the seat between Sam and Kurt. "I guess I can't blame her. I don't know what I would have done in her position."

"And you'll never have to know," Finn's mom tells her, and she smiles.

Under the table, her hand finds Finn's.

"She lives out in Ohio now," Puck says. "I bet she'd like to meet you. But like I said — if you don't want to see her, you don't need to. You've got plenty of family right here."

"I'll drink to that," Burt declares.

"Literally," Santana says, holding up her wine glass. "To our family."

They all raise their glasses, and in imitation Sophie even sleepily lifts her sippy cup. "To our family."

* * *

><p>"I don't want to see him," Rachel whispers to Finn. "I don't want to visit my daddy."<p>

He doesn't reply right away. It's the middle of the night, and he finally managed to put a fussy Haley back to sleep, although she managed to wake up the entire Hummel household before then.

"It's not that I want to avoid him or avoid reality, not anymore," Rachel continues. "I just . . . I don't want to see him. There's nothing I want to tell him, or to ask him, and I stopped missing him a long time ago. Is that — is that terrible?"

He wraps his arm around her waist and tugs her firmly into his chest. "No, babe. It's not."

* * *

><p>But three days before the wedding, Finn decides he <em>does<em> want to see his dad.

Rachel offers to let Puck and Santana take the girls for a few hours so that she can come into the prison with him, but he tells her that isn't necessary. He'll only be in and out. It won't take long.

She agrees to wait outside for him.

It makes him nervous to walk inside a prison. He signs a few forms, walks through a metal detector, and sits in front of a window. A few minutes later, from the other side of the room, from the other side of the window, they bring in his dad. Finn tries not to gawk.

He picks up the phone. "Hey Dad." The words catch in his throat a little.

"Hey Kid." He stares at Finn through the stained window, his five o'clock shadow peppered, his eyes dull, and Finn stares back, unsure what to say or how to act. "It's nice to see you in the flesh," his dad murmurs, his voice a rumble. "Last I saw you, they were wheeling you off to dish out your organs. That's right. My boy was brain dead."

Finn looks down, clutching the fake black phone tightly. "I'm sorry. It was all. . . ."

"I know, son. I know. I read the story in the paper. Half the damn city did. And on trial. I sat and listened to Kurt Hummel testify about how he helped my only kid fake his own death. You were smart, kid. You did it smart. Fooled me."

"I'm sorry," Finn murmurs, "but I'm . . . I'm not — I'm sorry that I put you and Mom through that, but I'm _not_ sorry that I did it. I'm not sorry that I got out, and that I got Rachel out."

And his father chuckles a little. "That's good to hear. I like that. And you want to know something? I ain't sorry for what I've done either. I'm not sorry for what put me here. I'll tell the damn judges and reporters I am, but I'll tell you, kid, I did what I had to do. And I might be here, and your mama mighta left me, but I did what I had to do, and if I had to go down, too, to take down Berry, well, then, hell, that's what I did."

Finn nods. His dad is still his dad. It's quiet for a moment, and Finn can't look at his father.

"But tell me about you," his dad says. "You and Rachel Berry, huh? You still together?"

"We're married," Finn says, and he hands the phone from his left hand to his right so that he can hold up his left hand, can show his father the wedding band. "We married after we left."

"Good on you, kid."

"I, um — we live out in Seattle now," Finn continues. "I landscape. I have my own — my own business, with a buddy of mine. It's an irrigation business."

"Irrigation? That's good work. That's good." His father nods.

"And we have two — two girls —" He fumbles with the phone as he pulls the picture out of his wallet, taken just a few weeks ago, and he slides the picture through the small slot. His father picks up the photo. "That's — the baby is Haley, and that's Sophie, here sister, she's three next week."

"Those are some good looking girls," his dad says, nodding. "And that — that Sophie, huh? She has that Hudson smirk on her face. A real Hudson smirk. That's — that's nice." He smiles, and Finn does, too, looking down at his lap. "You know I'm . . . I'm up for parole in a few months."

"Kurt told me."

"I — I have a job lined up. Private security. It's the haven of the disgraced cop, you know. And it'll only be for a little while, enough to push the feds off my back, and, you know, keep myself fed. It'll do. But, um, when I'm out — I'd like to —" He nods at the picture. "I'd like to meet your girls."

"Yeah," Finn says, and he feels a completely new yet somehow familiar affection rise up in him for his father, the best of so many bed men. "Yeah, I bet they'd — I bet they'd like to meet their grandfather. Here, I'll, um — I'll give you my cell number. And when you're out —"

"I'll call," his dad says, accepting the business card Finn slips him. "And this picture? I can keep this, right? I'd like to keep this."

"Sure," Finn says. "You can keep it." He pauses. "I should probably head out. Rachel is right outside, and — but I just . . . I love you, Dad."

His dad stares for a moment. "Of course you do. I'm your father. And it was good of you to come see your old man. Not many people do, kid, despite what I did for this city." He shakes his head.

"Okay, well, um, I'll see you."

"You'll see me," his dad says, nodding, and Finn starts to hang up the phone.

But his dad raps his knuckles abruptly against the window, and Finn brings the phone back to his ear, waiting. His dad sighs, chuckles a little to himself, and then offers Finn half a smile. "You're my only kid. My boy. And I —" He shakes his head again, as if this is all stupid. "I love you, too."

"Thanks, Dad," Finn murmurs.

"Right." His dad nods, not looking at him. "Get out of here." He hangs up the phone.

* * *

><p>Finn smiles when he sees his girls waiting for him, Haley propped up in her carrier and gnawing on her fist, Rachel sitting with Sophie in her lap, playing some sort of clapping game.<p>

For a moment, he simply watches them, laughing a little to himself as Rachel bounces Sophie in her lap, making the girl giggle madly before suddenly she squeals when Rachel gives her a loud, wet kiss. He finally approaches them, and Rachel smiles at him hesitantly, the question in her gaze.

"It went okay," he says, nodding.

"I'm glad," she murmurs. They'll talk more later, he knows, but for now Rachel wants to take the girls to Central Park. He grins and agrees, and when Haley starts to fuss, he takes her out of the carrier, rocking her a little and kissing her cheek as they start towards the car.

Sophie grabs his right hand and Rachel's left, demanding that they swing her between them. Finn only laughs in response and, with Rachel, swings her up, up, up, and then down again before she suddenly breaks free and races ahead of them, having spotted something or other, probably a flower.

And Rachel takes Finn by the hand, squeezing softly.

**Fin.**

* * *

><p><em>I believe in a Monday morning dream,<em>

_Of a rising star and a celebration of freedom._

_"I believe the sun will rise" some say,_

_With an independence day for every season._

_And I'll be stronger than before,_

_And they can't bleed me anymore._

* * *

><p>an: and now it's really over! I want to thank Kelsey and Ally so, so much for their amazing prompt, and if you're a finchel fan then you _need_ to read their stories, found under the pennames CharmingKelsey16 and Sad Or Thirsty or under their joint penname, GleeTwins. I also owe a huge thanks to Quinn for betaing and helping me brainstorm and making this story ten times better than it would have been. you should definitely check out her stories under the penname Quibily.


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